Prophecy's Path
by Fuzon
Summary: My attempt at telling the story of Guild Wars: Prophecies. The machinations of fate force six warriors together to save Tyria, all in accordance with the Flameseeker Prophecies.
1. Mesmer Mesmer

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

_This is a novelization of the story of Guild Wars: Prophecies solely for the purpose of honing my skills as a potential novelist, specifically, to develop my abilities to develop interesting characters. As a result, my interpretations of the different professions may not appeal to the grand majority. But this is just my interpretation._

_ This story is intended for those who have at least basic knowledge of the Guild Wars universe. Comments and Criticisms are very much appreciated, especially ones pertaining to me style of writing - I find that I'm not as clear as I'd like to be, and any suggestions on improving this would be especially welcome._

_So, enjoy. Kudos to whoever gets the poor reference in this chapter's title. _

* * *

**Chapter One: Mesmer Mesmer **

"You would dare speak to, let alone do business with them?" King Adelbern had leapt off his throne in a show of anger, surprising from one his age. Before him knelt a nobleman, dressed in exquisite green clothing made from the finest silk.

Sermo Malum remained calm, despite the threat of arrest and execution. "Your highness, with all the investments I have made with regards to the Ascalon Army, as well as my other endeavors, my coffers are running dangerously low. I require some foreign gold from to maintain my commitments to the war against Kryta, Orr, and the Charr."

The aged king paced the breadth of the raised dais the marble throne rested on, fuming at both himself–for showing such weakness–and the man who knelt before him. He chose to nitpick the man's plan. Perhaps the nobleman would slip up, and reveal some incriminating detail. "How did you contact the Krytan king?"

Keeping his head low so the King would not be able to see his smile, Sermo spoke, "I merely gave the request to the local Xunlai representative. They read the message to ensure it did not contain any state secrets, and then sent it along to their people in Lion's Arch. I received the reply in the same fashion."

Adelbern inwardly swore: he had no choice but to trust the Mesmer's words. To question them would be to question the neutrality of the Xunlai guild, a terrible diplomatic _faux pas_. "How do you know that the Krytans will just let you do your business and walk away with the platinum? Surely they know that you'd use it to fund the war against them."

Sermo's hidden smile grew wider. "I will be traveling with members of the Alherius Guild, as a guest. The Krytans won't so much as touch me, lest they offend their creditors."

Adelbern, exhausted by his receding anger, collapsed into his throne. In a voice that betrayed his age, he asked another question, "What guarantee do we have that you will return to Ascalon?"

Sermo raised his voice in a show out mock outrage, "With all due respect, your highness, I have given more to the army and the public than any other noble family! While I understand that you asked that in the spirit of caution, I am insulted that anyone could consider my loyalty in question!"

The King exploded again, "Stop acting. I'd expect this sort of thing on stage at Lady Althea's theatre, but not from you. I need concrete proof that you will return, with the gold, and not flee to Kryta as others have."

"Very well, your highness. I can offer you the deeds to my land. Should I, in a state of complete lunacy, abandon my homeland, all my family's lands will go to the crown, rather than to my nephew. I'll have the necessary paperwork written as soon as possible."

In thin, tired voice, King Adelbern replied, "That is sufficient. Go now. We need a few days to think over your request."

The Mesmer slowly raised himself up with the help of his cane, and bowed towards the king. "May Lyssa guide your fortune."

"And may she do the same for you. Now get gone."

Sermo, still smiling, opened the door to his carriage. He told the Warrior sitting inside, "Tor, I want you to ride up front in case of a Charr attack on the way back. They've been more daring of late."

A few seconds later an enormous bear of a man awkwardly extracted himself from a doorway that was obviously too small for him, and landed hard on the cobblestone road. Tor then turned around, and reached inside the coach for his weapons. After he'd climbed up front with the driver, he said in a deep and monotone voice, "Ready, boss."

The Mesmer nodded, and then knocked on the front wall to the compartment twice, signaling that he too was ready to depart. Immediately the carriage leapt to a sudden start. Sermo reached into the right pocket of his coat and pulled out a book on the History of Vabbi.

* * *

An hour outside Rin the carriage stopped. Sermo put his head outside the window, and demanded to know what was wrong. The driver nervously called back, "The horses are getting really nervous. They refuse to move at all." 

Sighing in annoyance, the Mesmer pulled the glove on his right hand off and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was about to speak, but was interrupted by the detonation of a flare spell two feet to the right of the carriage. Tor leapt into action, while Sermo kicked open the door and hopped onto the dirt road. He saw that Tor had already reached the top of a nearby hill, and was dueling two Char warriors, both armed with axes and dressed in cruel, jagged armor. A few feet beyond were another pair of Charr, their unarmored forms revealing the distorted feline shape that was all teeth and fur. While slowly climbing the hill, he began chanting in a rhythmic and smooth tongue, with harsh consonants. His speech slowly crescendoed, ending with a point of his cane.

Almost immediately one of the Charr exploded in purple flames, as the energy it used to fuel its spells boiled away. The two beasts turned their attention towards the Mesmer, and spoke in the guttural tongue of the element they were invoking, intending to roast their victim alive. Flames appeared and flitted over their paws for a second before being launched towards Sermo. As soon as the spell left its paws, one of the Charr Shamans howled as purple fire raced over its body a second time.

Seeing both bursts of flame fall towards him, Sermo threw himself to the right and rolled down the hill a few feet. He used his cane to help him stand, and then spat out an interrupt. One of the shamans lost control of its spell, and howled as the flare detonated in its paws. Fueled by rage, it cast a series of flares, not noticing the damage being done with each complete casting. Eventually the purple fire was too much for its body, and it collapsed. The other Charr Shaman, upon seeing its comrade reduced to a wretched pile of burnt hair, snarled and ran towards Sermo, intending to tear him apart limb from limb.

Sermo, already bruised and tired from dodging so many flares, swore. As he ran down the hill, he gasped out a quick spell. The Shaman suddenly felt a great weight fall upon his back. When he twisted around to see what was there, he saw the charred body of its fellow Shaman.

Sermo allowed himself a moment to smile at the image of a Charr slowed by an imaginary weight. He then cast one more spell before turning to walk towards his carriage.

Now the corpse on the Shaman's back was clawing at its former comrade. The phantom wailed and scratched, while the Shaman crawled down the hill towards the Mesmer, slowed by the illusionary weight, but fueled with the knowledge that this human was responsible for its suffering.

Still the phantom of the dead Charr tore into its ally, through fur, skin, muscle and bone. The Shaman howled in agony, eventually attacking the weight on its back to try to drive it off. It pulled off the blackened skull, but still the phantom kept attacking. The Shaman only died when it witnessed the removal of its heart, torn out by the phantom.

When he was sure both of his enemies were dead, Sermo turned his attention towards Tor and his foes. Upon seeing that the Warrior had already killed one Charr, he whispered a few words and watched as purple flames raced across the hide of the remaining foe every time it swung its axe. Taking advantage of this, Tor blocked an attack with his shield, and as it winced, stabbed his sword into its heart as a final thrust.

Sermo called to the Warrior, "Hurry up. I want to be back in Ascalon City before dark, and we've wasted enough time here as it is." The warrior gave no sign of acknowledgement, choosing to slowly walk down the hill. Sermo shook his head and climbed into the carriage. Upon inspecting himself, he noticed that his sleeve had torn in the tumble down the hill.

* * *

It was well past midnight by the time the stagecoach pulled in front of the house Sermo owned in Ascalon City. Normally he would have retired to his country estate, but he had business which required his staying in the city proper. 

As he slowly stepped onto the cobblestone road, he turned to his driver and said, "Send word to Morton that I want to speak with him, noon tomorrow. He's probably down in the catacombs, exploring. The other necromancers will know where he is, so ask them." Seeing the man's face pale visibly upon hearing this task, Sermo said, "Remember what I did to those Charr back there?" Upon seeing the man slowly nod, he smiled and said, "Good. Now go."

After watching the man run until he was lost to the darkness, he turned to Tor and threw him a bag of gold. "Here. Fifty gold per slain Charr. I assume that it will be enough to buy a woman or two?" Tor nodded. "Go enjoy yourself."

Tor turned and slowly walked in the direction of the eastern quarter of the city. Sermo entered his house, and walked up to his room. He dismissed the maids who would normally have helped him change, and fell onto the bed, exhausted, but ever-plotting.


	2. Kitsch

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

_Once again, brownie points for whoever guesses the reference in today's chapter heading. _

* * *

Chapter Two: Kitsch

The catacombs beneath Ascalon were a series of varied and winding tunnels and caverns. Originally simple holes and caves that animals and travelers could hide in, erosion and the occasional earthquake slowly expanded this system over hundreds of years. Then in the years after the Exodus of the Gods, clergymen of the cold god of death, Grenth, and the goddess of life, Dwayna, began excavating and carving their own temples dedicated to their respective deities. Further earthquakes and magical disasters linked these shrines to the rest of the complex, as well as revealing an enormous chamber of unknown design. The size of the catacombs were such that no one truly knew how large they were, or where all the tunnels truly extended. There were rumors that some stretched all the way to the Crystal Desert, though no explorer had returned alive to verify this.

Held within its cold walls were secrets as well. The Nightmares–dark, ethereal monstrosities that hunted prey from the shadows–were originally created as assassins by a group of Necromancers. Now the monsters stalked the corridors, devouring the unwary. But these creatures, as well as the walking dead, guarded the true appeal of the catacombs: artifacts and mystic secrets hidden or lost over the centuries.

In the chamber of unknown origin there was a pit, a great hole in the earth that seemed to have no bottom. Morton stood at its edge, and looked down. Idly he kicked a pebble and watched it fall. He turned to his fellow necromancer, Munne, and said, "Has anyone ever plumbed its depths?"

Munne replied, "We've sent minions down there before, but the bottom is beyond the range of our link. And the men who've tried to climb down have never returned." She was interrupted by a hiss from the darkness beyond her lamplight. Used to the sounds the undead made, she continued, "But surely you did not come all the way down here to ask me useless questions?"

Morton brushed his long locks of black hair to the side while still staring downwards. "Why is it useless question? It would be useful to find out where it goes?"

There was a second hiss, louder than the first. Munne sighed, and raised her wand in preparation for an attack, "Curiosity killed the cat, Morton."

"But a good necromancer can bring it back."

By now the hissing had grown louder, and Munne could see faint outlines of their attackers. She knew that they were undead, the raised remains of former Ascalonian soldiers – another mistake on the part of the Necromancers. Despite several efforts at extermination, the catacombs were still haunted by these mockeries.

Munne saw the faint glimmer of torchlight behind the skeletons still-vague forms. Then a voice echoed along the stone walls, "Hello?" She swore, picked up her lantern, and said, "There's a fool in need of saving."

Morton didn't react, choosing to stare down into the pit with a vacant stare he adopted while lost in thought. She reached out and shook his right shoulder. The leather-on-leather made a soft, muffled crunch. He looked up at her with clouded eyes, as if he'd just woken up. "Oh, right. Yes, let's go."

* * *

"Hello? Is anybody there?" Sermo's servant had noticed a dim glow in the distance, and prayed to Dwayna that it was someone friendly. In his right hand he held a sword, though he had no idea how to use it properly, and a candle in his left. He had had a lantern at one point, but had used it as a projectile against a pack of Nightmares; though the creatures were not wholly in the physical realm, they could still catch fire, and he'd used the distraction that a burning Nightmare had provided to escape. He had later stolen the candle from a shrine. It was Lyssa's luck that he'd lasted this long. 

He called out again, "Is there anybody there?" A vague blob in the distance caught his eye, and he stopped. As it moved closer, it began to take on a vaguely humanoid shape. "Oh thank Dwayna," said the Servant with relief, "Please, I'm searching for a Necromancer named…"

His voice faded as the figure moved closer, revealing it possessed only one good eye, but no skin. The servant stood slackjawed in shock for a second before instinct took over, and bolted. As he turned around, he came face to face with another undead, this one in much better condition than its partner: it had a full epidermis, though its chest had been cut open, and half-decayed organs drooped out like the stalks of wilted flowers.

Both undead were wielding rusty, broken swords, and the gutless one held half a shield. The skinless creature raised its hand to strike when a bolt of black energy in the shape of a swarm of bats screamed through and engulfed the monster. When the magic fled back into the darkness, a sword dropped and clanged against the stone.

The second undead, upon seeing this, swung its sword and cut a deep gash into the servant's shoulder. Pulling its weapon free from the man, the zombie raised its hand, prepared to do the same again, but was stopped by the sudden appearance of Morton's right hand on its arm. Morton said nothing, but the undead's wrist began to blacken, as if being burnt by fire. It apparently had brains enough to understand pain, and lungs enough to scream as it opened its mouth and let out a thin, jagged wail that whipped through the air like a curse word. It didn't stop until the decay had spread to its lungs and head, and a few moments later the creature was reduced to a pile of ash.

Morton took a step back, and dusted himself off, while his companion attended to the fallen servant.

"Very dramatic Morton, but this man is dying," she said while trying to stop the bleeding by tearing off the man's shirt to staunch the wound.

Morton replied in a disinterested fashion, staring at her in annoyance, "What do you want me to do? I'm no monk."

"Then go get one!"

The Necromancer responded slowly, as if he was discussing something as idle and pleasant as the weather, "I'd never return in time. Besides–"

Morton was cut short by the man's whisper, "Please, message... from Malum."

Morton sighed, and said, "Deliver it."

He received no response from the servant.

"He's slipped into shock," said Munne.

Morton rolled his eyes. He had a job to do, and now his employer was bothering him. Grenth, he hated people.

Munne's voice, made shrill by worry, exclaimed, "Morton, he's going to die!"

With a sigh of annoyance, Morton pulled out a map from his satchel. "Here, give me his hand. I'll warp him back to Ashford."

Munne stood up, furious. "Why didn't you–"

"Because he didn't matter before. Now I need to know what he has to say." While he was talking, he produced a map from a pouch on his sleeve.

"You selfish ass. It's Necromancers like you who give our art a bad name!"

Morton replied coolly as he knelt down to take the servant's hand, "We can discuss your need for social acceptance later if you wish. Right now, I've got a job to do." Now turned towards the map, he picked out Ashford Abbey. Its name was written in both Common, and in the jagged hieroglyphs used to scribe the language of the dead. He chanted a few words in the cacaphonic tongue of Grenth, with a second voice–this one as ancient and deep as the mountains–joining in slowly, but with all the surety of death itself. Then, when it seemed that he would never stop, Morton and the dying servant faded away.

Munne swore. That bastard had taken the lamp with him.

* * *

Aegwynn Setter sat meditating in the first floor of the guest house of Ashford Abbey in the lotus position, repeating the Prayer of Forgiveness over and over. Her bald head, tattooed with devotional phrases and quotes from scripture written in the smooth, flowing language of Dwayna slowly began drooping forward as she drifted closer and closer to sleep. Her arms began sagging as the mantra became more and more muddled. Then someone knocked three times on the door, and she was jarred awake. She quickly got up, and opened the door to see a pale man dressed in tight-fitting leather armor, carrying another man with a gash across his collarbone eight inches across. 

Morton spoke first in a disinterested fashion, "This man is dying, and needs medical attention. Can you help him?"

Gwynn, shocked by this morbid surprise, stuttered out, "I'm just a novice. I can go wake up on of the others, or maybe the abbot…"

Morton interrupted her, "He'll be dead in a minute. Your tattoos show you as being a monk; so I'm sure you do something?"

She tried to protest, but soon caved, "All right, I can try. Please lay him on the ground." Morton dropped the servant, and then began walking away. Aegwynn called out to him desperately, "What are you doing? Where are you going?

Without turning his head, the necromancer said, "Don't worry, I'll be back." He ignored whatever else she said, and walked to the gate of the Abbey. Sitting down in the dust, he pulled out a knife and his map of Tyria. He saw that the droplet of blood beside the Abbey, along with the hieroglyphs, had faded away. He sighed with annoyance, and began the ritual that would allow him to teleport to this exact location by plunging the knife into his wrist.

Meanwhile, Gwynn was hurriedly whispering a prayer to Dwayna for help. Timorously, she took the servants right hand, and began whispering a spell in the soothing tongue of Dwayna's angels. It took a few seconds to get the words out, and she was unsure if she'd said them properly. She opened her eyes to see that the wound was still as ugly as before.

She nearly howled with despair, but, calming her jitters and slowing her breathe, she began to say the spell again. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the wound was slowly closing. Red eventually faded away to pink, and a semblance of color returned to the man's ashen cheeks. After a minute or two there wasn't even a scar. She breathed a sigh of relief, and whispered a Prayer of Thanks to Dwayna. She then got up, and ran to awaken the master of novices.

When Morton was done, the map once again had a little dot of blood and runes besides Ashford Abbey. The ground was stained with his blood, but he still lived. The necromancer sheathed the dagger, and, while the wound was still open, whispered a dark healing spell. He felt a jab of pain as the wound grew bigger, but then exhaled as the cut sealed and the blood disappeared.

Feeling somewhat restored, he walked back into the Abbey, over to the prone body of the man he had rescued from the catacombs. The Necromancer knelt, and tried to awaken the servant. It took a slap or two before he grunted and opened his eyes.

The servant slowly took in his surroundings, and asked, "What happened? Where am I?"

Morton quickly spoke, "What was the message you had for me? Speak quickly!" He wanted to be gone before any of the Monks came down to investigate.

The servant groaned, asking, "Who are you?"

Morton spat out a sigh, and removed his dagger from its sheath. Waving it in front of the servant's face, he said, "Give me the message Sermo ordered you to deliver to Morton the Necromancer!"

The implicit threat appeared to jar the man's memory, and he wailed, "Meet with him at noon tomorrow! In the City!"

The Necromancer sheathed his dagger, and told the servant to shut up. He then got up and left the Abbey, knowing it would take the rest of the night to get to Ascalon City. He walked out the gates, and unknowingly stepped in a bloody puddle. The darkness beyond embraced him as one of its own.

The servant was left alone. While he waited to make sense of what had happened, Aegwynn emerged from the guest house leading a tall, well-built male monk. She said, "Brother Paulus, there he is!"

Paulus turned to the novice Monk, and asked, "This is the man you healed?" After seeing her nod, he asked the servant, "Sir, I apologize for my brusque tone, but I must ask you some questions. Firstly, if what Gwynn is saying is right, you were brought here by a Necromancer?" He ended his inquiry with the raised tone of an unbeliever.

The servant, brow furrowed in confusion, stammered out, "I don't really know. I was down in the catacombs, and was attacked. Last thing I remember is that there were two Necromancers standing over me. Then I woke up here."

Paulus nodded, and continued, "May I ask what you were doing down there?"

The servant froze, unsure if by speaking the truth he would be punished by Sermo. After a few seconds he stammered out, "I, uh, no, you can't."

The Monk gave a disapproving grunt before turning towards Aegwynn, and grunting out, "Return to your post, and continue your prayers." The novice nodded, and ran inside. Paulus turned to the servant and spat with disapproval, "Speak truthfully now, or there will be consequences. Are you one of that girl's lovers? Is this all some elaborate story to cover up your tryst?"

The servant was flabbergasted, and stammered out a reply, "No! I was simply doing a job down in the catacombs!" As he spoke, his pride reasserted itself, "How dare you even accuse me of such a thing! I wake up here–"

Paulus judged that this man was too stupid to lie properly, and interrupted, "My apologies. We've just had some problems with that novice. Wait here for a moment." Paulus stood up, ran inside the Abbey, and returned with a white shirt. "Take this as an apology. It is too cold to be walking around at night without a shirt on."

The servant snatched the shirt, and nodded, "Apology accepted. Now, I must be going." Without another word he pulled the shirt over his head, and walked towards the Abbey's exit. Mhenlo watched him go for a second, and then went inside to talk to Aegwynn, not noticing a lone lantern lying on the earth. As the night went on, the flame dimmed, and just before dawn, died.


	3. Reason & Revelation

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

* * *

**  
**

** Chapter Three: Reason & Revelation  
**

Tor slammed his empty tankard against the table with enough force to break its handle, causing the ale within to spill. He had already drunk ten mugs of the stuff, and was now starting to feel the tingling in his limbs that announced minor intoxication. He hollered for more ale, and turned his attention back to the grinning wench that sat on his lap.

She giggled, and said in a voice becoming of a novice actor, "What muscles! How'd you get to be so strong?" The two of them were sitting at a table by themselves in the middle of a the pub within a dingy inn. The other tables around them were sparsely populated with patrons: it was the middle of the workweek, hence the only visitors would be the drunkards, the depressed, and the bored. There was a balding innkeeper slowly wandering around, his false leg making a dull clunking sound on the dirty wooden floor as he made his way between the bar and the various tables.

Tor gave a lopsided half-smile, and tried to think back to his past. It was not something he particularly enjoyed doing, but it was necessary to continue this particular form of foreplay.

His memories were all tinted with gray, and images drawn from his depths were less like real photographs, but more like crude sketches made by a bad artist. They lacked connotations as well: when he pictured his mother, he saw an average looking, squat peasant, untouched by any emotions between the extremes of love and hatred. He saw his life as a simple extolling of facts: another birth, an ineffectual decade and a half spent on farming with the occasional barfight to test his mettle, and then service in the Ascalon Army during the still-raging Guild Wars. His desertion was untainted by shame, his enlistment and protection by House Malum lacked any gratitude. Even if there was no alcohol in his system, he would not have been saddened by this less-than glorious trip down memory lane.

He had begun slurring his speech, "'s a farmer kid for few years. 'N I was'n th'army." He was interrupted by the arrival of another flagon of ale, which he quickly downed. The wench, doing an excellent job of hiding her disgust of the Warrior, grinned at him and hugged him closer.

The door to the tavern slammed open, and a tall, well-built man stormed in, leaving muddy footsteps where he walked. His dirt-stained clothing announced his profession as that of a farmer, though he held his sword as if he knew how to use it. The din of the drinkers died down to low mumbles as many turned their attention to the new arrival. The farmer looked around the bar before catching sight of the wench, and yelled, "Tara!" He marched over to where Tor was sitting and grabbed the woman's arm with his free hand, "Couldn't hide for long, could you?"

The wench looked at the farmer with genuine fear in her eyes. She wailed "No!" and tried to pull her arm away from him. "Get away!" she yelled.

Drowsily, Tor grabbed the farmer's arm with his, and mumbled, "She was with me first. You'll have to wait until I'm done with her."

The man replied, "She was with me long before she was with you. Now, get your hand off me before I cut it off!" He sneered when Tor let go, and said, "You're damn lucky I didn't kill you for just being with her." Tor then brushed the woman off his lap, stood up slowly, and punched the farmer in the face.

"I said, you're going to have to wait your turn," said Tor, his voice suddenly cold and deep. He walked away from the table, towards the man, and stared down at him.

The farmer pulled himself off the floor, and felt up his face to check the damage done. When he realized he'd been dealt a black eye, he snarled, and swung his sword at the Warrior in a horizontal slash.

Tor took one step back to avoid the blade's arc, making sure he stepped around the table he had been sitting on.

The farmer, frustrated, swung again.

Tor took two quick steps back, once again avoiding the attack.

Furious that he should be so humiliated, the farmer leaped forward and swung the sword in a horizontal arc.

Tor ducked, and stood up when he heard the blade sink into a wooden pillar. The farmer tried to pull the weapon free, but it was buried too deep for that. Tor stepped forward, and punched the farmer, sending the man into another, empty, table.

All eyes were now on the pair. The regulars chuckled and commented on how foolish that farmer was to take on Tor. The relative newcomers stared in awe at this beast of a man. The innkeeper, on the other hand, was leaning against the bar, and had his head in his hands.

Tor grabbed the hilt of the weapon, and easily pulled it free from the pillar. Without a word, he walked up to the farmer and kicked the table over. The man began to crawl on his knees, and was begging for mercy in a sniveling tone. Tor ignored his pleadings, kicked him in the face, and drove the sword into his chest.

Everyone stared in silence at the Warrior as he walked back to his table. The wench had tears flowing down her face as he sat down. Tor was about to say something when she raised her hand to slap him. Before her palm connected, he grabbed her arm, squeezed, and said, in a terrifying monotone, "I just killed that man because I was going to pay you to ride me, and he would've taken that away from me. Don't get me angry at you now."

She nodded, and crawled into his lap, drying her tears against his grey tunic. He hollered for more ale, and patrons turned their attention back to their own matters. After a few minutes, the general atmosphere had been much the same as before Tor murdered the farmer, with the only difference being the innkeeper now had to detour around the corpse pinned to the floor like an insect in a collection.

Eventually, Tor stood up with the girl, dropped a few gold coins to pay for his drinks, flashed the seal of House Malum so the bartender would not report this altercation, and walked up to the room he had reserved.

* * *

The next day, Sermo Malum was pacing the length of his study. Morning sunlight flowed in from the window, giving new life to the redwood floors and furniture. The rug–made by the finest Kurzick weavers in all of Cantha–was baptized a brilliant blue and red in the light, while each detail in the fabric that covered the chairs was drawn out, as if by a lover's gesture. The sunlight even managed to give a shining aura to the lone piece of parchment that lay on the desk, despite its dark message. In fact, the only thing unblessed by its golden rays was Sermo, whose dark countenance nothing could improve. He paced the floor, his jacket, gloves, vest, and cane lying on one of the couches, leaving him dressed only in green silken breeches and a white dress shirt. Accenting his agitated state was his uncombed hair, with his ponytail loose and unruly.

A messenger from the King had just arrived to deliver Adelbern's response to Sermo's request: _King Adelbern I has, in his infinite grace and wisdom, decided to allow Lord Sermo Malum, of House Malum, travel to the lands of Kryta despite its belligerent status, on the condition that Lord Sermo Malum serves within the Ascalon Army for a period of exactly one year. This shall prove to His Majesty that Lord Sermo Malum is indeed a loyal subject, worthy of His most gracious and glorious trust. Lord Sermo Malum's response must be made within three days of receiving this announcement, else it will be rendered forever null and void_._ So pronounces King Adelbern I, ruler of Ascalon.  
_

He had not expected Adelbern to pull something like this. He had thought it beyond the old bastard's abilities. He could hardly refuse now: at best, he would look like a foolish coward, at worst, a treasonous snake. But his nobleman's pride spat upon the notion of serving as a common soldier. Besides, he might even die; no doubt Adelbern would have him put in some suicide unit.

Sermo's raging was interrupted by a knock at the door to his chamber. "What is it?" he spat.

The voice of a young servant, muffled by the wood, though still perfectly comprehensible, responded, "My Lord, the Necromancer Morton has arrived."

The Mesmer sighed, "Send him in."

A few moments later Morton opened the door and sat down in a chair facing the fireplace. Autumn was coming, and the people of Ascalon had begun waking up to frost on the windows, so there was already a fire lit to keep the room warm, though the obsidian tiles around it rendered the question of it being a fire hazard moot.

"Generally it's considered polite to knock first," said Sermo as he walked over to his desk. Morton grunted in response. Sermo continued, "I am sorry I had to pull you away from your excavations, but I need you to do something for me."

Though the Necromancer's silence indicated that he was listening, Sermo opened the door to the hallway, and peered to the left and right, to ensure that no one was listening. Then he spoke quietly, "I need you to find a tunnel within the catacombs that leads to Kryta, or at least the Shiverpeaks."

Morton's eyes remained fixed to the fire as he spoke with curious apathy, "You interrupted my research for such a trivial demand? You could have just sent a messenger instead."

"Messengers who carry treasonous messages often find themselves in the palaces of Rin, spilling secrets in exchange for gold. I am already on Adelbern's list of enemies; the last thing I want to do is give him proof of any sort." Sermo opened a side-cabinet, and withdrew a wineglass, and a bottle of the finest Amethyst. He did not bother asking the Necromancer if he would like a glass, since he already knew the answer. "I needed to speak with you in person, because it would look like any normal meeting between a Lord and one of his servants."

Morton's response was as cold as the God he served, "I am not one of your lackeys."

Sermo poured as he spoke, annoyed, "Yes, yes. We are partners in the search of information and profit. But Adelbern is watching me, and so I need to look as innocent as possible. I'm sure he has placed spies within my servants." He brought his voice down to a whisper, "Now, find me a tunnel out of Ascalon, and I can assure you that you will always have funding for whatever explorations or experimentations you need. No strings attached." The Mesmer took a few steps back, and leaned against his desk, waiting.

Morton stared at the fireplace for a few minutes, and then said, "What proof do I have that you will fulfill your end of the bargain?"

Before answering, Sermo stepped outside, into the hallway again to ensure that there was no one listening in. Once he was satisfied, he said in an angry whisper, "I am trusting you with information that could lead to my execution. I hope that will demonstrate the strength of our business relationship."

"The only thing certain in life is death. I'll need more substantial proof."

Sermo smiled, and then opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a pouch filled with gold and platinum coins, and said, wearily, "I had hoped that you would take me on my word, but you were always too misanthropic for that." He tossed the pouch at the Necromancer. "You'll get a second bag upon my safe arrival in Kryta."

Morton opened the bag, and spent several minutes counting its contents. When he was satisfied, he asked, "How will I get the money if I'm in Ascalon?"

"You will be coming with me to ensure that I arrive safely."

Morton stared directly into the flames within the hearth, his eyes glazed, like those of a lizard, with apathy. "For that I'll want a third bag of gold."

"For that you need to prove to me your worth."

The Necromancer nodded, and was silent for a few minutes. Sermo, used to Morton's ways, stared out the window, sipping his wine. Then Morton spoke, "Open your closet door," and gestured towards the door that led to Sermo's extensive collection of ancient, mostly banned and heretical documents, all of which were hidden behind a false wall within the closet. Furrowing his brow, the Mesmer obeyed the instructions.

When he opened the door and peered in, Sermo found a young serving boy, recently hired as a scullery boy in the kitchens, along with a quill, vial of ink, and a sheet of parchment with notes written on it.

The boy, upon seeing that he had been discovered, tried to escape. He'd barely stepped past the Mesmer when his steps slowed, as if an invisible weight had fallen on his shoulders. Another few words and the boy gave a sharp cry as purple flames raced over his body as what little magical energy he naturally produced was detonated. The pain caused him to fall to his knees, and a cane against the head brought him into unconsciousness.

While checking his cane to see if the boy's skull had done any damage, Sermo asked, "How did you know he was in there?"

Morton smiled to himself, and said, "I could hear his heartbeat." He finally broke his gaze from the fire, and looked down at the servant. "Do you need me to eliminate him?"

The Mesmer stared down at the prone form of the boy while pouring himself a second glass of wine; normally he didn't drink that much this early, but he felt like he needed a release. "No, I can handle it from here. You have done enough to earn that third bag."

Morton stood up slowly, and then turned to Sermo. "I shall visit you when I've found what you want."

Sermo nodded, and then walked into the closet. "I need results in less than a week's time."

"I'll see what I can do." As Morton was stepping out, he saw Sermo step out of his closet, carrying the parchment the boy had been writing on.

As he threw it into the fire, Sermo said, "Before you leave, tell one of my servants to send up Tor to see me."

The Necromancer nodded, and was gone.

* * *

Light from the same sun streamed through the stained glass windows at Ashford Abbey, giving the gray stone floors a semblance of life. Tapestries depicting the creation of Tyria lined the walls, giving the room an almost homely atmosphere which hid the serious nature of the business at hand. 

Aegwynn, still wearing the rough burlap robes of a novice Monk, sat in a wooden chair that had been pulled from the tables that lined one side of the room to the middle. Her eyes were red from crying, and her hunched form still shook every so often with each attempt at repressing her sobs.

"There is nothing that can be done," said Meerak, another Monk, as bald as the others, and wearing the same armor-styled burlap that all initiate Monks wore. "You have repeatedly violated your oaths."

Though she tried hard to keep out the rough, stretched tone of voice that comes from weeping out of her voice, it still snuck through, "But I tried!" She raised her head to look the scribe in the eyes, "Please, I was so lonely," she said quietly.

Meerak tried to keep the compassion from his face, but failed. "Gwynn, you're twenty-one. You are an adult, and must act your age." He looked down at the girl, her eyes swollen with sorrow, and said, "I have never seen a novice show such devotion in her prayers and acts to the great Goddess. If I could figure out a way, I would keep you here, and help you overcome this weakness. But it is impossible."

So she would not see the sadness in his eyes, he turned around, and went to inspect the nearest scene in the closest tapestry. "A vow is a vow, a holy, unbreakable bond. What would happen if Lords broke their vows to their vassals? What would happen if the King broke his vows? It would be chaos. You have failed to keep your own sacred, unbreakable bond to the Goddess, and so you must be punished."

"But it's so unfair! Brother Mhenlo sees that girl all the time. Why isn't he punished as well?" Every other word was interrupted by her staccato sobs.

"Monks dedicated to Balthazar do not have to take vows of chastity. It's one of their oddities. And you should not try to bring others into disrepute, especially a Monk as respected as Brother Mhenlo!" Meerak sighed, and spoke without turning to look at her, "There is nothing I can do. Three days hence, you will be relieved of your vows, and released from the Abbey. Until then, you can continue taking your lessons in the healing arts."

Now she made no efforts to hide her sobs. The tears flowed freely, dripping down her cheeks, and even onto the burlap and the stone floor, marking the latter but not the former. She was like a child that had lost its favorite toy, or some small battle.

Brother Meerak tried to distract himself by focusing on the tapestry. This particular scene featured Dwayna sculpting the first man. Meerak, having never really examined these drawings, was surprised by the level of detail the weaver worked into every instance: every feather in her wings, every deft movement of her hands, and even the brilliant blue of her eyes.

He was, however, shocked when the woven image of Dwayna suddenly looked up at him, and waved her hands to indicate he was to watch what was happening. Meerak was shocked, but had the sense to dismiss Aegwynn by saying, in a tone harsher than he had meant, "Go. Now."

Aegwynn was wounded, expecting compassion from the Monk. Driven even deeper into despair, she stumbled over to the door, leaving footprints in the form of teardrops, and left.

Free from all distractions, Meerak watched the tapestry, mesmerized. Colors left their threads, moving about the brown threads like otters floating on a pond, merging and splitting apart to form different shapes and colors. After a few seconds, a green, verdant plain covered with grass appeared. From each individual stalk arose a village. A moment later, the images of men, women, and children came into being, seemingly birthed from the colors of the grass. From the corners of his vision, Meerak saw a blue sky spread out like a puddle. The Monk was pleasantly surprised to see Ashford Abbey form at the centre of this display.

He was not prepared when threads of fire rained down from beyond the top of the tapestry. The colors shattered like glass, and then melted to gray. All that was left was a wasteland of ash, a broken, flat, grey landscape. And then Meerak saw the bestial forms of Charr emerge from beyond the corners of his vision, and march across the grey landscape. A large one, tinted with an angry, violent red, looked around, and then stared straight at Meerak.

Then the Monk blinked, and saw the still, beautiful image of Dwayna sculpting the first man. He stared for a while longer, to make sure that the image wasn't going to move again. Then he took a step back, and collapsed into the chair Aegwynn had left. Meerak felt as if he had just wrestled with a grawl.

He saw that the sun's last light was pouring through the stained glass, still enlivening the stone with autumn colors. Then his sense of duty awoke, and he bolted up to find Brother Mhenlo. He ran past the chapel, failing to notice Aegwynn, her eyes still red, praying before an image of Dwayna.

She desperately, desperately hoped that something would happen that would allow her to stay at Ashford.

* * *

Writing Morton is such a pleasure. He's apathetic, full of contempt for everyone else, but has some amusing one-liners. 

I'd love to hear some comments, if you don't mind. I feel that this chapter is better than the other two, having more description of the general atmosphere. I took my time with it, and it appeared to work. But please, let me know. I'd enjoy some constructive criticism.

As an aside, I imagined the Guild Wars World as a sort of medieval society, complete with feudalism (with all the wild animals and 'barbarian invasions', it makes some sense), but lacking that modern-humanism crap you'd find in Dominic Deegan. Let me know what you think, I'm always interested in hearing other people's takes on my interpretations.


	4. Next, Please

**Next, Please**

Once again, Morton found himself deep within the catacombs, at the edge of the Pit. He was weary after a day's worth of marching back and forth between Ascalon City and Ashford Abbey. But, as usual, his relaxed, gaunt face volunteered nothing save a steady look of general disdain.

Oberan, however, made Morton's pale and stretched visage look charged with joy by way of comparison. Here was a Necromancer who had been underground so long that his pupils had almost completely faded away, leaving eerie, pale white eyes. His voice was scratchy from lack of use, and when he said, "Put out that light," it was as if he was channeling the voice of Grenth Himself.

Morton, bowing to the older, and more powerful Necromancer, did so. Then, facing the direction he knew Oberan to be standing, said, "Pardon me for interrupting your studies, but I have a question." Feeling alone in the darkness, he was beginning to feel the unfamiliar tingle in his body that marked the beginnings of genuine fear.

When Oberan's voice oozed from the darkness, "Oberan knows of you, young Necromancer." this feeling blossomed.

Morton inwardly chastised himself for acting so childish. Babies in their cribs were afraid of death; the man who chatted with it on a regular basis, who rode on the prow of the black-sailed unfamiliar, should not be feeling even the tinges of fear. It was irrational.

Oberan continued, seemingly oblivious to Morton's rising terror, "Go ahead, ask Oberan."

Forcing calm into his voice, Morton spoke in his usual monotone, "You know the catacombs better than anyone living or dead. I wish to know if there is a passage to Kryta, or at least to the Shiverpeaks." He calmed as he spoke; talking was an excellent distraction.

As if unconcerned with the implications of the question, Oberan gave a quick answer, "There are some passages that extend a fair distance. Oberan has not yet had the want or need to explore them, but they are possibilities." Oberan put his hand on Morton's shoulder, as if to point him in the proper direction.

When Morton felt the touch from within the darkness, he felt the deepest of urges to run, screaming like a terrified little girl into the great darkness beyond, away. He felt as if the bottom of his mind had dropped out, and he was falling into a great unknowability, into oblivion. For a moment, he imagined that the hand on his right shoulder was the hand of Grenth, come to claim him at least, and he was genuinely terrified. But it took all his self-control, the very same that stopped him from screaming in agony when he cut or stabbed his wrist, to retain the appearance of calm.

Oberon continued to drone on as he turned the Necromancer in the proper direction, "When you relight your lantern, continue straight in the direction Oberan has pointed you. You will come to the tunnels Oberan speaks of." When he let go of the younger Necromancer's shoulder, he continued, "There will be a small chamber of stone, with three tunnels branching off in the same direction. One of those, Oberan believes, will be what you seek."

Morton nodded, and fumbled for his lantern. He was eager to escape from this memento mori, this reminder of his reasons for becoming a Necromancer.

When the lantern's small flame was healthily blazing, and his heart still, Morton walked onwards in silence. He did not bother with an expression of gratitude he did not wish to give, nor Oberan expected.

* * *

Oberan uncovered his eyes when he felt it was safe to do so. After spending so long in the dark, any form of light, however pale, was agony to him. He was unpleasantly surprised to find, rather than the pitch black he was expecting, a dim glimmer in the distance that was growing steadily stronger with each passing second. The Necromancer quickly covered his eyes with his hands, unable to bear its sight.

In the distance were two women. One had short, blond hair, and wore thick plates of armor, marking her as a Warrior. The other was dressed in a midnight blue evening gown which, along with her long black hair and pale skin, bore scuff marks, and other signs of the wear-and-tear found in the Catacombs.

The woman in the evening gown, Asperia, was furious. She had merely stopped by this warrior, hoping to ask her for directions to Ashford Abbey, when she was conscripted into assisting her mission within the catacombs. When protested, choosing to say that she was only a lady, and would be completely useless in such dangerous environment, the Warrior responded that she know Asperia was a member of the Elementalist Academy up at Wizard's Folly, as shown by the necklace she wore, and that she was fully capable of looking after herself. The number of skeletons crushed beneath half-melted shapes of ice was testament to this.

Each word spoken during their brief conversation was examined and analyzed each word and phrase. She was sure that this uncouth mercenary had insulted her in some way, and it burned the young noblewoman that she was unable to pick it up. Asperia was sure that this barbarian had been enlisted by some of her rivals in preventing her from attending the Scion Ball. She was so caught up in the intrigues of the upper-class that the notion that this might just be an honest, one-dimensional appropriation of assistance completely escaped her. She was still fuming when they noticed a Necromancer, on one knee, writing about while covering his eyes.

The Warrior, unaware of the agony she was causing Oberan, asked with genuine concern, "Are you all right?"

Oberan, gritting his teeth, said, "The light hurts Oberan's eyes. Turn it off!"

Immediately the Warrior tor off her cape, and used it to cover the lantern while apologizing. When she felt that the darkness was sufficient, she turned towards the Necromancer and said with a brisk and no-nonsense tone of voice, "My name is Devona, and this is Asperia Crilis. We have been ordered to search the catacombs for signs of a Charr incursion, as Ashvale was recently attacked by one leading a group of Grawl. Prince Rurik suspects that they may be using the catacombs to sneak south of the Wall. Have you any information on this matter?"

Oberan surprised himself by nodding, and said in his dreary, raspy monotone, "You come here seeking Charr? You were wise to seek out Oberan, for no creature, be they living or dead, moves through here without my knowledge." He paused for a moment, thought, and then continued, "This Charr that you seek comes often to the underground, but he does not make his lair here. The spirits of this place would not tolerate him should he seek to take up residence. If you require proof of his presence, take this," he reached into one of the many black leather pouches on his person, and removed a sharp tooth, like that from a cat, only much larger. "It's a token he left behind during one of his encounters with the denizens of this place. Now then, leave me to my studies. Return to the world of light." He said the last word with conspicuous distaste.

Devona gently took the tooth from his hands, and said, "Thank you." She turned to her Elementalist companion, and said, "Asperia, let's go."

Sullenly, Asperia nodded, leaned over, and threw off the cape covering the lantern. Oberan wailed and threw his hands over his eyes in an attempt to shut out the pain. Asperia ignored the Necromancer, and said, "I thank you for your assistance," and then spoke with all the haughtiness and revulsion she could muster, her voice as cold as the Shiverpeaks, "Oberan the Reviled." With Lantern in hand, she walked away, leaving Devona to catch up to her, and Oberan to recover from the shock.

* * *

The next morning, Sermo had breakfast in a hidden room behind his wine cellar, where he kept all of his prisoners. Strung up against the cold stone wall was the boy who had been caught spying on his conversation, wearing only a pair of dirty breeches.

"How are we doing this lovely morning, then?" asked Sermo when he entered the cold, dark room. When the child did not respond, he smiled and said in a voice so rich with false-cheer it must have been fattening, "I hope you don't mind if I eat breakfast while we chat. I've been rather busy lately, what with my moving to Kryta. But you already knew that."

The boy did not bother to raise his head, choosing to let it loll forward, against turned towards the ground.

Sermo was puzzled. Over the brief decade he had been head of House Malum, he had noticed two kinds of prisoners: those who gave in the instant he entered the chamber, willing to spill every detail they knew, and those of a stoic, noble stock, who often died under torture, only spilling their secrets when he told them he could grant a quick and easy death. He had not expected a youth of fourteen to be one of the latter. He was vaguely impressed.

The soft, grinding sound of wood against stone announced that the shelf that acted as the door to the dungeon was swinging open. A moment later, Tor entered wearing only a white, sleeveless shirt, and loose, grey pants. Against his back was a small wooden table for one, supported by his right hand, while his left was carrying a wooden chair. Once he had placed those articles in their proper spots, he stood aside to allow the head servant entry.

A pale, old man pushed a wooden trolley, weighed down with boiled eggs, cured ham, and both water and freshly squeezed juice in fine crystal pitchers, into the room. The dull, humid stench of the dungeon was quickly replaced by the rich, warm scent of well-cooked food. Once the table was set, the head servant quickly fled with the trolley; he wished to have nothing to do with what might happen. He only served Lord Malum while keeping quiet because Sermo knew the whereabouts of his loved ones.

Still smiling, Sermo sat down while Tor closed the door. Taking his time to make a great show of tucking his napkin into his white, linen shirt, Sermo spoke, "And how are you enjoying your little rest? I'm sorry about the accommodations, but they were meant for someone," he paused, and gestured towards the seven inches that lay between the ground and the boy's feet, "a little taller." He frowned when he saw that even this had little effect.

He began to eat, slowly, and making an exaggerated show of how delicious everything on the plate was, "If you get the chance, you really must try the ham. My chef does an excellent job." He took another bite, and said, his voice half-muffled by the food he was still chewing, "Would you like some?"

Again the boy gave no response, choosing to simple stare at the earth. Sermo dropped his smile like it was something poisonous, and stared at his prisoner. Then he realized what was wrong. "Tor, hit the boy until he wakes up," he said, grave as Grenth.

Dutifully, Tor trudged over to the prisoner, and delivered a quick, hard punch to the boy's gut. The boy awoke immediately, wheezing and gasping for air. His job was made all the more difficult by the lack of solid ground to collapse against, and soon the air was filled with the clink of his chains and he thrashed about.

Sermo watched for a few minutes, relaxed. He did not touch his food, as he had tired of the act almost as soon as he had begun. He now decided that he was going to have a frank chat with the child. When the boy had finally calmed down, he spoke, "You were spying on me yesterday."

He was gratified to see that his prisoner, it turned out, was of the first type, "Yeah Yeah, I was. Some guys came up to me, told me they'd give me crowns if I listened in on your private stuff."

Sermo's voice melded with the stone walls, for they accepted what was similar in spirit, "What did you tell them?"

The boy revealed his age, with his long blonde hair that hung over his face doing nothing to disguise the tears of fear, "Nothin, I swear! They only talked to me the day before yesterday!"

Sermo nodded, and said, "Tor?" The Warrior responded immediately by delivering another punch to the child's stomach. When the wheezing faded to sobs, Sermo asked, "Are you telling the truth?"

He was bawling now, "Yes! Yes! I swear on…" he paused, sobbed, and spat out, "Dwayna's womb!" he said, using a vow common to the laymen of the Church of Dwayna.

Sermo smiled, "Good." He turned to his bodyguard and said, "Tor, let's be off."

"Wait!" said the boy, incredibly frantic as he saw the bodyguard push open the hidden door, "What about me?"

"You're useless to me now. I might send someone down to kill you in a few days. Depends on how I feel." Sermo spoke without looking at whom he was addressing.

"But I can tell you all sorts of stuff! I can tell you who was behind the guys who hired me!"

"Whoever hired an urchin like you would not have been stupid enough to reveal his identity. You were a pawn. Nothing more."

The boy was more than terrified now, and desperately grasping at whatever straws were available to him, "I can tell you where they wanted to meet me!"

Sermo paused, the foundations of a plan already forming in his mind. He waited in silence for a minute or two, not moving, and then turned around to face the child. His voice was all business, but it was harsh in a way that made people believe he was incapable of dishonesty. "I'll make you a deal. Tell me the meeting spot. If it holds true, then I'll release you. If it's a lie, I'll simply seal off this doorway and let you starve."

Failing to see the obvious deception, the boy nodded with such speed and strength that tears were flicked in different directions, "Of course, my Lord! They were going to meet me in the alley next to The Dwarven Keg, at midnight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah," said the boy, hope nurturing a trusting smile.

Sermo nodded, and turned away. He opened the door, and said, while stepping through, "Tor, bring the torch with you." Tor snatched up the only source of light in the room, and followed his master. He dutifully ignored the boy's pleadings and protestations, and quickly slammed the wooden shelf back into its proper place.

The boy was left alone in the dark, weeping.

* * *

Just after midnight, a lone Charr emerged from a small cave north of The Wall. His coat was matted with dust and dirt, and he was still nursing the pain from a missing tooth lost in a battle with the gargoyles that infested the Catacombs. But he was alive, and exuberant. His bow had been strapped to his large back, and his quiver had been discarded to free his hands for the musty old tome he had finally found, after weeks of searching, in the catacombs.

He scurried along, hiding in the shadows whenever he heard or smelled an Ascalon patrol. He knew he could not afford to be caught now, not when his vindication was so close at hand.

It took until dawn's first light peeked over the edges of the horizon to return to the Charr encampment. Choosing not to stop for rest, nor for water, he ran towards the great pyres and idols the Shamans built every night. None of the sentries stopped him, for they knew and admired him. After a moment or two, the Charr burst into the largest and most opulent of all the tents that had been set up, and exclaimed in the raspy tongue of his people, "Heirophant Burntfur!"

Any other Charr would have been turned to ash for disturbing the chief Shaman's rest, but Bonfaaz knew this voice well. He threw off the opulent furs that kept him warm during the night, and stood up off the floor. "What is it? What have you found?"

"The journals of the human, Lord Odran. As you ordered."

Burntfur could barely conceal his excitement. He ran over and snatched the book from the other Charr's hands, careful to retract his claws so as not to damage it. He spent a few minutes peering in wonder, browsing through the different pages. "Where did you find this?" he asked.

"Deep within the tunnels underground. The tunnel leading from the tombs of Drascir southward was collapsed, and I had to find a way around. I even had to stage an invasion of Ashford Village as a distraction, so I could delve deeper."

Burntfur had stopped paying attention, and marvelled at the old book in his hands like a young cub over its first kill. When he realized that the other Charr was still there, he said, hurriedly, "You've done well. Go and rest,"

"I do no mean to be impertinent, Holiness, but what of your promise?"

Burntfur snarled, but stopped himself from turning the other Charr into his next meal, cooked medium-rare. "We shall discuss it later."

The other Charr saluted and exited the tent. Bonfaaz carried the book over to one of the holy braziers lit to keep the tent, and its occupants, holy. The small flames cast a little light, enough to reveal the writing in the tome, along with the pelt walls that made up the tent. After an hour or two of reading, Burntfur was satisfied that he knew all of the spell components. He was beginning to feel the first twinges of pleasure; soon he would have more human skins to make an even grander tent.

But then his mind turned towards the Charr hero that had just delivered the instrument of their gods' will. He was becoming too popular in this war, and too powerful. Many among the Shaman caste were worried about what would happen if he took it into his head to join the caste, or worse. But no one wanted to give the order for execution.

What he needed, Burntfur realized, was a martyr. Someone whom his kind could idolize, who could be used to drive the Charr war-effort to new, dizzying heights. Vatlaaw Doomtooth, Bonfaaz realized, would be useful once more.

* * *

It's been a month, but I finally updated! Sorry about the long wait, those few who read this, but the general atmostphere of laziness surrounding the Christmas season got to me.

Once again, brownie points to whoever gets the reference in this chapter's title, and in the body of the work as well.


	5. This Is The Way The World Ends

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._**  
**

**This is the way the world ends**

Ascalon's last day was the most glorious in recent memory, though title was added in memoriam. The sun bounded over the horizon, enjoying its last few hours spent as a free, beautiful beacon. The wind whispered over the fields, and the birds seemed possessed by the spirit of Dwayna, for they sang so melodiously.

Even Sermo Malum was touched by the day's splendor. He whistled a tune he had heard at the opera house last week as he pulled on his embroidered, green silk jacket. He had a meeting with King Rurik in the afternoon, and the trip to Rin would take up most of the morning.

His mind was not bothered by the memory of the boy he had chained up in the cellars beneath his mansion. He did not care that he was committing treason. He simply found enjoyment in the routine act of pulling on his left glove, and then his right. At the moment, he was free from whatever schemes he had planned, and from the situation he had been thrust into. He allowed the spirit of Beauty to move his entire being; he was a true devout of Lyssa.

His mood was quickly spoiled when Tor knocked on his door. "Come in," said Sermo as he snatched his cane from its stand.

The warrior quickly opened the door, and announced, "Your ride is ready, lord."

Sermo sighed, nodded, and followed his bodyguard outside. As he got into the carriage, he frowned, realizing that Morton had yet to contact him about their arrangement. He now had to plan for contingencies: that there was no tunnel to the Shiverpeaks, that Morton had died down there, that the Necromancer had sold him and his secrets to the Kingdom.

Sermo sighed, ignoring both sun and wind. He had work to do, and, no matter how much it may move him, beauty must always play a second seat to staying alive. He gave a quick cry, announcing that he was ready to go. Tor, lost in the absence of thought, simply relayed this message to the driver.

* * *

Vatlaaw Doomtooth staggered along with dull acceptance. Breaking his previous oaths promising to allow the hero to retire, Burntfur gave him one last order: against all the odds, he was to sneak into the Academy and assassinate Prince Rurik. 

The Shaman had shown Vatlaaw maps and schedules he had been given by their spies, men desperate for gold. Apparently Rurik was set to inspect the Ascalon Academy, as a routine duty of the Crown Prince.

"This is the greatest opportunity we've ever had!" yowled the Shaman to the Hero, "We can strike a blow against the Infidels as has never been. Imagine:" he spoke with all the grandeur that had allowed him to ensnare weaker-minded Charr in his many sermons, "The wall collapses, and the leader of Ascalon's armed forces is found dead. What a grand victory for the Charr!" Burntfur paused, looked down, and said in a quieter voice, "What a grand victory for Vatlaaw Kingslayer."

Without a word, Vatlaaw nodded, and departed into the twilight that precipitates the sunrise. He entered the catacombs, and navigated its now-familiar tunnels and tombs to another passage he had discovered recently.

In the end, he had no choice, thought Vatlaaw as he pulled himself out of a small hole. He had to go along with the plan, because that was who he was: the greatest warrior of the Charr.

But most of all, he thought as he surveyed the canyon behind the Ascalon Academy, he would be the true hero of their Holy War. And who, whether human, dwarf, tengu, or Charr, didn't want to be a hero?

* * *

The temperature in the catacombs had dropped steadily over the past few hours. It had been almost a day since Morton had left Oberan by the pit, and he could already see the pale cloud appear and fade, marking each breath taken, in the light of his torch. His lamp had burned out long ago, and he had considered himself very lucky to find several unlit torches on the body of some adventurer. 

But Morton did not mind the cold: it reminded him of his god. And he was unwilling to remain distracted by such trivialities. He was close to his goal, he could feel it in his bones.

The tunnel he was traversing was small, with barely enough room for a man of average height to stand up tall. Every so often he would have to lean right or left to avoid the small stalactites that drooped from the ceiling. It had been miles since he found any signs of human life: no corpses, no dropped weapons, or any other kind of loot.

Being a Necromancer is not conductive to optimism: only a depressing skepticism bordering on pessimism. But, as much as it could be said so, Morton was feeling good about his day.

* * *

Asperia was inwardly fuming. After her 'stellar performance' in last night's 'assignment', she had been ordered to report for conscription at the Ascalon Academy for a brief mission, which would test her aptitude for the Elemental arts, and determine whether she should be conscripted into the army for the fight against the Charr, or against Orr or Kryta. She was agape at the unjust serendipity of her situation: she merely stopped to ask for directions! And now, her entire life would be altered by that one event. 

She resolved to foul up her casting. If she was feeling particularly meanspirited, maybe she might misdirect her spell at one of her team-mates. Perhaps that blond slattern, Devona. If she could claim it as an accident, she would certainly be refused. Having devised a plan, she adopted a smile of self-congratulatory pride.

She walked through the iron gates, approached one of the guards, and said in a sweet, thin voice, "Lady Asperia Crillis, reporting for assessment."

The guard looked at the young, pale, fragile girl in a blue, short dress that stood before him. "Shouldn't you be in the north end, rather than here?" he said sarcastically, referring to Ascalon City's Red Light district.

Her eyes went wide for a second, but then she composed herself. Fixing a withering gaze to her face, she muttered one a few syllables, unheard by the guard, and then walked away. The guard watched her for a moment, ready to make some comment under his breath, when he felt something cold and hard grasp his nether regions.

Asperia was always credited with finding useful variations of common spells. Icy Shackles was no different.

She tried entering the main building, but was stopped by another guard. This one, however, was much more polite. "Just head straight in, and you'll see a bunch of clerks. I'm sure one of them can help you find your mission," he said. She thanked him, and strutted into the grand marble atrium.

The sight was grand enough to surprise the highest-born noblewoman. Sunlight streamed in through the many stain-glass windows depicting great events in Ascalon history: the founding of Ascalon, King Doric's plea to the Gods at Arah, and (though she was sure this was a tad narcissistic), the triumph of King Adelbern over his weak predecessor. The light flowed into the marble, which was a pure and unbroken white, except for the very centre of the room; there, the emblem of the Ascalon Army, a lion rearing onto its hind paws, ready to attack, was set in obsidian. Columns, inlaid with writings from the scriptures of Balthazar, stood tall and pure.

Asperia stood for a few minutes, taking in the sight. She was struck by a case of cognitive dissonance: soldiers were supposed to be barbaric, with no appreciation of the finer things in life. Yet here was a palpable testament to their love of beauty. She was prevented from pondering this further by a clerk dressed in light leather armor.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Slightly distracted, she spoke calmly, and softly, "Yes. I was told to report here for a test concerning conscription." Her voice trailed off as she gazed at the mural set into the ceiling of Balthazar fighting off hordes of shadowy creatures, while Dwayna protected the men fighting with him.

"You're late by ten minutes. Follow me," he said, a tad snappy. They walked through one of the many doors, down several flights of stairs, and into a small room filled with a variety of professions, and the Crown Prince Rurik. The state of confusion her mind was in before whole-heartedly leapt to the next level at this revelation.

"Ah, Lady Crillis," he said, his voice reminding her of a lion, with all its richness and courage. He bowed, as was custom to a noblewoman, and then asked "Please have a seat." In awe at the fact that she was in the same room as the future king of Ascalon, she dumbly nodded, and sat down.

The Prince continued, "At dawn our spies reported that there was to be a Charr attack on the Academy itself. It turns out the beasts have learned how to navigate the catacombs beneath Ascalon, and are sneaking down from the northlands." He turned to gesture towards Asperia, "I believe Lady Crillis had a hand in that discovery," and gave a paternal smile. Asperia felt like an icicle about to loose its grip. "Some cowardly bastard apparently told them that I would be inspecting the Academy, and so they hope to assassinate me. Currently we are investigating the identity of the traitor, but that's neither here nor there.

"What is important is that I have decided to turn this mission into a test for entrance into the Ascalon Army, and maybe even the Vanguard itself. I need volunteers." Immediately everyone threw up their hands, including the formerly-reluctant Asperia. She was not going to be denied her chance to impress the Crown Prince: it could do wonderful things for her future.

Rurik spent a few minutes surveying everyone in the room, before saying, "There will be four members of this team. I will be leading it, bringing the total to five."

One man sitting in the back, dressed in the dull iron-grey of a Warrior, raised his hand. Once Rurik gave him the signal, he asked, "Why so few?"

"Because, first of all, this is still a test, and it is easier to see the skill level of four candidates involved in a high level of combat. Second of all, the attack is very poorly planned: only a single Charr warrior has been sent to marshall what few Grawl have been hidden from our warriors." He paused, "Any other questions?"

When the room was totally silent, he quickly pointed to three people, saying, "You, the Monk. You, Warrior. Yes, the Ranger in the green-dyed leather. And you," he pointed to Asperia, "As a reward for your good service. The rest of you are dismissed, and will be tested in the normal fashion. I wish you all good luck."

The Crown Prince waited for the rest of the crowd to reluctantly file out of the room, and then turned to his four party members, "Now, come with me. We've got some ground to cover if we're to take this beast by surprise."

* * *

The boy chained beneath Sermo's mansion had stopped crying: he had no more tears to spill. He was tired, thirsty, starving, and upset with himself for voiding his bowels overnight. He was a scared little child, and he prayed to whatever god would listen to help him with typical naiveté, "Please, help me. I promise I'll never steal from the grocer. I promise I'll be good to my mom. I promise I'll help my sister," his whispered invocations grew more absurd as he grew more desperate, "I promise I'll join a monastery!" he said to the darkness. The wrong sort of god heard him, and within its own darkness, smiled.

* * *

Aegwynn was also all cried out. She now sat on a wooden pew in a small chapel, alone, waiting for Meerak or Paulus to enter and begin the rites of expulsion. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were puffed up. Her hair was tangled due to lack of attention, and her clothes were ill-fitting and improperly adjusted. She felt more lonely than ever, and wished she could have someone there to comfort her. 

She shook her head: it was those kinds of wishes that had led to her expulsion in the first place! But, like her heart, or lungs, the feeling was still there, still a part of who she was. She hated herself then, and in that found more tears to shed.

* * *

Sermo Malum knelt before King Adelbern, on the red carpet before the throne. Tor knelt behind him, and waited for the King to give permission to speak. 

When it was given, Sermo spoke, "Your Highness, I come to accept your gracious offer."

You could have knocked Adelbern over with a feather: he had been expecting bargaining, lies, subterfuge, pleadings, blackmail, and even an outright refusal. But certainly not acceptance! For the second time in a week, he felt his age. After collapsing into his throne, he said, "Very well, then."

Before the King could speak further, Sermo quickly added, "But I just have one request."

Adelbern felt his cynicism returning to him: he knew the snake had something planned. "What is it, then?" he demanded.

"I merely ask for a respite of three days, so I may put my affairs in order. If I am to join the Ascalon Army, I need to find someone respectable to look after my estate, and, should the worst come to be, someone to execute my will. In return, I offer you the additional service of my bodyguard, Tor Draks." He gestured with one hand to the Warrior kneeling behind him, hoping the gesture did not reveal his nervousness: here was where his plan could fall apart.

Adelbern was silent for a few moments. He thought about this request, its possible implications, and how it might work into a scheme or two. Finally, when Sermo began to feel real pangs of fear that his subterfuge would be discovered, or that he would be accused of the murder of Lord Barradin's servants, whom Tor had killed the previous evening, King Adelbern opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

Farther to the North, Heirophant Burntfur was beginning the ritual Lord Odran had described. He stood above a number of Shamans and Warriors, on an ugly stone platform. Crude banners, made out of human skin, flapped in a wind that was steadily growing. A great eldritch iron cauldron, with macabre bone spines grasping the black body, acted as the centerpiece to this grim display. 

Burntfur, with one hand, held open the dusty tome Vatlaaw had given him last night. In the other hand, he waved his focus, carved out of a Charr skull, slowly tracing glowing sigils in the air, which faded into the ether as soon as they were complete. But with each dark syllable uttered by his gnashing tongue, a blue spark appeared in the center of the cauldron. With all the speed of a rolling glacier, that spark ignited, and grew into a steady azure flame.

The Hierophant revealed his teeth in what other Charr would recognize as a smile.

* * *

Vatlaaw scrabbled across the cold stone, trying to outrace his pursuers. He knew now that he had been discovered; no, they had been forewarned. It was the only explanation: he was too skilled a tracker to have been noticed this far away from the Academy. This was not hubris, it was a simple statement of fact. 

His padded feet made no noise as he slid to a halt. His ears, keen as any Charr's, twitched as he tried to catch whatever sound his pursuers made. It took a few seconds, but he could just hear the basso of Rurik's voice, shouting encouragement to his party members. Doomtooth snarled, and continued to run.

He came to a fork in the tunnel. He remembered that he had to take the left channel to find the passage back down to the Catacombs, but a minute down that passage revealed that the passage had been compromised: six members of the Ascalon Army were positioned around the entrance, and he was sure that there were one or two more belowground. He snarled a curse. He had to improvise.

He wasted precious time retracing his steps back to the fork. This time he took the right channel. The sounds his pursuers made had grown louder, which added impetus to his escape.

It took only another minute of running before he realized his error. The tunnel's end led straight out into an eighty-foot drop into the lake next-to Ascalon City. Had he the time, Doomtooth might have remarked on the beautiful view it gave him of the city. Now all he had time to do was plan his final stand.

The Charr did not panic: it was not becoming of him. He simply accepted his fate, and sought to make the best of it. He drew his bow, and plucked an arrow from the quiver; he realized he might as well die a Kingslayer in spirit, if not name. He pressed himself against an indent in the stonewall where he would not be immediately noticed, but where he would have a good view of the approaching party. Unconsciously raising his muzzle so he gave the appearance of snarling, he simply waited, judging how close his prey were by the sound of their voices.

"This way!" he heard the Prince cry. By now they were close enough for the Charr to smell them. Doomtooth waited still.

"My Prince, allow me to go first! He may be planning an ambush." Clever girl, from the sound of the voice.

"Nonsense. These are bestial creatures. I doubt it has the sense for that." Again, Rurik's deep voice, this time charged with arrogance. He would soon pay for that.

And then the Prince turned a corner, and Vatlaaw let the arrow fly. The Prince saw it too, but to late to dodge. Had Doomtooth paid attention, instead of turning aside to quickly draw another arrow from his quiver, he would have seen a young boy, his shaved head and tattoos declaring him a Monk dedicated to the protection arts, leap in front of his prince, and take an arrow straight through the neck.

The second arrow loosed did hit Rurik, though he found the sense to bring up his shield. Still, it went straight through the tempered steel, and lodged itself in the Prince's arm. To his credit, Rurik did not even cry out. Instead, he focused on removing the offending projectile, while the Warrior, dressed in well-polished platemail, charged screaming a warning to the rest of his party, "Watch Yourself!"

Doomtooth gave another one of his twisted snarl-smiles, and stepped to the side, out onto the cliff. The charging Warrior changed direction accordingly. He raised his axe, ready to cleave the Charr's skull, when Doomtooth dropped his bow to the earth, used one paw to grab the Warriors right arm, and used his enemies momentum to spin him round, over the edge of the cliff. The scream echoed long and loud before being chased away by a terrible crashing sound.

With two party members down, Rurik was being a little more cautious. "Ranger, Elementalist," he barked, "take him down from a distance!"

Asperia gave a small nod, and then raised her hands to begin the chanting. Vatlaaw barely had time to pick up his bow before she launched a series of icy spikes at him. He dodged two, but was struck in the chest by the others. He both shivered and spasmed as his body was knocked to the edge of the cliff. Though he managed to stop himself from falling off, he lost grip of his bow, and wasted a second watching it fall to the lake below. Shaking himself, and smacking his chest to shake the ice off, Doomtooth roared, and charged at the Prince.

* * *

Now the blue flame was a true bonfire, a grand pyre upon which Ascalon's corpse would burn. Bonfaaz Burntfur had stopped chanting by now: he only had one word to say before the spell was complete. But he took these last few minutes to gaze at the beauty of the weapon before him, to bask in its macabre glow like he used to with the flames of his cubhood. His maw took upon a look that humans would see in their pets as they placed food before them. 

And then, shaking himself from his reverie, he spat out the last word the way an adulterer would angrily deny any wrongdoing on his part before his wife. And the fire leapt into the sky, turning it a dark, scab red.

"Watch, brothers!" Burntfur cried, "Watch the infidels burn in the fires of righteous fury!"

* * *

Vatlaaw took one swing at the Prince before he felt the sharp sting of an arrow lodged in his back. A second soon followed, along with the cold agony of a series of ice spikes. He fell to his knees, his mind clear with the knowledge of impending death. 

Rurik slowly got to his feet, wincing, and said, "And now, foul beast, die." Raising his sword, he swung it at the Charr's head, decapitating him. The blade, encased as it was in a steady stream of fire, cauterized the wound and filled the air with the scent of cooked meat and burning hair. Doomtooth's last though was of his cub, Pyre, and it was full of regret. He heard one of the humans yell, "My Prince, the sky!" before his soul was sent screaming to its dark destination.

Rurik looked up, and realized the sky was a hideous shade of red. "Balthazar's blood…" he trailed off.

* * *

"We will grant you the request you desire. You have three days before-" he was interrupted by a member of the Ascalon Vanguard bursting through the oaken double doors that led into the throne room. The soldier was practically tripping over himself, and sputtered out, "Your highness the sky!" 

Adelbern's face was hard with a confused anger, "What of it, it's still there, isn't it?" He said, mockingly.

* * *

Morton gave himself a rare smile: he could smell fresh, cold air coming in through some hidden passage. And then, in a small crack in the wall, he caught the faint glimmer of what he thought was sunlight. He decided to run, eager to be finished this job. He leapt into an awkward gait, becoming of one who has not used to physical exertion. He was almost there, he was sure of it.

* * *

Aegwynn stopped crying when she realized that the light falling through the stained glass window wasn't behaving properly. Despite the multitude of blue, green, and yellow shards of glass, the image cast on the cold stone ground was a solid red. At this point, Meerak entered the room, with bags under his eyes. 

"I want this to be short and painless. Aegwynn setter," he spoke quickly, while still walking over to where she sat, "for violating your vows as a novice of Dwayna, I hereby-" he was interrupted by the girl in question.

"Brother Meerak, look!" She cried, pointing out the only clear window in the room, at the sky masked in a demon's red.

"Dwayna preserve us!" he whispered to himself.

* * *

"No your highness," the soldier was breathless, "It's d-" 

He was interrupted as a jagged, grotesque pink-blue crystal crashed through the roof. The following one crushed him to a bloody pulp.

* * *

_Today's reference should be a little easier, though in Ascalon's case, it was quite the opposite. I'm not quite happy with the fact that I split the reader's attention a whole number of different ways, but I needed to bring all the characters together at this crucial moment. _

_To Mikedc39:  
Yes, I'm afraid I've submitted to the stereotype of the big-dumb-strong-warrior, though my reasons are a little different. By the end, you'll have seen why he's dumb, why his mind is empty most of the time. But no, there won't be secondary professions. I've never liked that whole aspect of PvE, and I simply view it as unnecessary for this tale._

_To Timeoffire45:  
Thank you for the compliment. The sub-plot also serves as an introduction to the rather distasteful character of Sermo Malum. But your Guild ideas make perfect sense: I just didn't see them when I conceived this story. Now it's too late to change. But still, it's a better realization of the system than I have here._

_ To Tom Jackledon:  
Thank you for the compliment.  
_


	6. Not with a Whisper, but with a Bang

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities.  
_

* * *

**  
**

**Chapter Six: Not with a Whisper, but with a Bang **

Surprisingly, Tor was quick to react in a crisis. As soon as the crystal behemoth shattered the stone roof, killing the messenger, he felt propelled by something both inside and outside his own psyche. Wondering only why, he leapt forward, and grabbed Sermo Malum with one hand, and King Adelbern with the other. He had the unusual sense to say, "Your highness, we must get outside!" as a warning. While tucking the Mesmer under one arm, and half-carrying half-dragging the King of Ascalon with the other, he began to sprint down the throne room.

Sermo was too distracted by this turn of events to react to Tor's attempts at rescue. He was trying to see how this instance of chaos would fit in which his schemes. This attack was magical in nature, hence it must have been ordered by either Kryta, Orr, or the Charr. And it was patently obvious it would be followed by a fresh offensive on the part of any enemy. Which meant that life was about to become far more dangerous than it had been before, especially now, since he was to be enrolled in the Ascalon Army within three days. His only option, he decided, was to try and kill Adelbern, while making it seem that he died in the attack. In the chaos, he could slip away to Kryta, where, hopefully, crystal death wasn't falling from the sky.

Adelbern, on the other hand, was shocked only in the way the elderly can be when they encounter an event so removed from the memories that they have grown to rely on. He hoped his son was safe. Beyond that, he could not yet reason.

Tor swerved around the gaping crystal body that lay entrenched in the stone floor. He smashed through the door with his right shoulder without loosing any momentum (though Sermo felt what would later become bruises on his arms and legs). Scribes, courtiers, and soldiers were milling about wily-nily, terrified by the red sky, and the resonant crashes that were growing louder and more frequent. One of the soldiers, seeing Tor with the King called out, "Assassins! Defend the King!"

Adelbern had enough sense to call out, "Get outside, everyone! The sky rains fire! It is death to remain indoors!" His voice, despite its frail and stretched quality, still echoed down the hallways with all the grandeur that a monarch would demand. He was still King, after all.

By now the marble had acquired a faint, red aura from the unnatural light that poured through the windows like blood from a pitcher. The soldiers slowed down, confused by their liege's orders. Their hesitation marked their end, as another crystal punched through the palace, crushing them.

The shockwave knocked Tor over, causing him to drop Sermo and release Adelbern. The King was the first to rise, both to his feet and to the occasion, and said, "Lord Malum, Warrior, we've got to get moving. Follow me." Without waiting for a reply, he ran down a hallway, moving surprisingly fast for an old man. Tor followed without question, feeling it was the right thing to do. Sermo gazed at the retreating forms of the two Warriors, cursed, and muttered a quick spell; his body was immediately surrounded by the thin grey haze that marked an enchantment, and he ran to catch up. He had to stop to recast the spell every few seconds.

They made it outside the palace, onto the cobblestone courtyard without further incident, though they had to take several detours because parts of the building had begun to collapse. The King walked to the middle of the space, and stared straight up at the red sky, watching as it twisted and roiled, like a tortured beast. Seeing there was no one else outside, Sermo realized his opportunity. He gestured to Tor, and said, "Listen, here's what I need you to do…"

* * *

Morton felt strangely energized. It was as if he had just woken from a long nap, rather than having trudged several miles without rest. This feeling of power grew as he moved closer to the surface. But this concerned him: he wondered why he was feeling so damn good. He paused for a moment in realization, and then began running.

As a Necromancer, he had a unique relationship with death: when things died around him, he was restored whatever it was that he gave to the Death God in his service. The only reason he should be feeling so energetic was because creatures close by were dying. He guessed this mass extinction was related to the ominous, dull bangs he heard and felt. With each groan, the tunnel trembled, and loose pebbles and earth fell from the ceiling.

When the passageway began to shrink, Morton got onto his hands and knees, and began crawling. He was convinced to move faster by the sound of rock on rock. The smoke from the torch clutched in his right hand began to hurt his eyes as he held it forward, but he didn't dare let it go, lest his fear return. But it was that very same fear that now drove him on as he wriggled through the passageway that grew increasingly cramped.

He was paler than a Necromancer should be. He was sweating too. His mind was a blank void that drowned everything but the primal notion to get out of these caves, get out of the darkness, into the light, _get out_. But it was becoming more and more difficult to move. The passageway had shrunk into a tiny crevice. But still Morton soldiered on, mortally aware that it was either do-or-die.

Then the tunnel came to an end at a large boulder. Morton, behaving like some wounded animal, thrust himself against the rock, pushing for dear life against the dirt and stones that lined his escape route. He burned himself rather badly by ignoring the torch in front of him. He knew he had to get out. He had to get out or he was going to die.

He was weeping with fear now, the tears glinting in the fast-fading light of his torch. Despite believing that this was as wretched as he could possibly get, he descended into deeper levels of terror as his torch's flame went out. Now he was left truly alone in the darkness, nigh buried alive. He thrashed about, wailing, crying, praying to whoever would listen to get him out of there.

Then he was in the air, flying, with his blurred vision revealing only the color red, and then the rapidly approaching ground. He hit the earth hard, but the pain caused by the impact focused his attention, and stopped him from blacking out. He took a few moments to regain his senses, and looked about. He saw the blood red sky for the first time, and the crystal monstrosities embedded into the soil. He looked up and saw the sky roil and twist. Each eddy spawned its own jagged monstrosity, and Morton watched several as they fell from the firmament to some location beyond the horizon.

He understood that a crystal must have landed close by, and the resulting force from the impact had freed him from his grave. He turned around, and nodded at his savior. It hummed an augmented fourth, commonly called _Abaddon in Music_.

Morton was surprised to see the grass around the impact zone dying. Before his very eyes, it turned a healthy shade of green (tinted with horror thanks to the red light that shone) into a dull, disturbing brown. Then, even each tiny cadaver faded into the earth, leaving dry soil. Morton took a few steps back, aware that it was not a good idea to be caught in this slowly expanding circle of decay. But then he noticed a squirrel standing, confused, betwixt himself and the crystal.

A mixing of the Necromantic and Elemental arts, thought Morton. Whoever created this spell was powerful indeed.

A loud crash focused his attention again. He looked around for the source, and saw that one of the projectiles had crushed a house at the top of the hill. Immediately he felt invigorated; all the exhaustion caused by his terror evaporated instantly. He drew his dagger, and prepared to cast a healing spell with his newfound power. Waste not, want not, he thought.

* * *

Asperia watched in horror as Ascalon City burned. From the ledge she, Rurik, and some Ranger stood on, she had the best view of the destruction of her home city. She watched as crystal after crystal smashed several buildings into rubble. She saw the bridge leading to the Ascalon Academy crumble, flinging horse and carts, along with their riders, into the air. She felt part of her begin to melt, as she realized that there would be no coming back from this day. Things could never be the same.

She watched as people ran from their homes, and tried to get outside the city. She thought she saw several people being trampled in the chaos, but there was no way to be sure from her distant vantage point.

"My Prince, what do we do?" came her voice, thin as the last remnants of a glacier.

Rurik's voice seemed as frail and broken as his fathers. There was no mistaking the horror that had wormed its way into this great man's spirit: "I don't know. Pray, I guess."

She stood there for a long time with her party members, watching as the city emptied, and was destroyed. She noticed that one of the last people to leave looked like a young boy, with something long wrapped around his wrist.

Then Rurik gasped, "The Wall!"

Asperia flinched in the direction her Prince was pointing, and watched as a hefty portion of the titanic stone wall that protected Southern Ascalon from the Northlands simply keeled over like a dead man.

* * *

Meerak and Aegwynn rushed out of the Abbey when they heard the screams and the shockwaves. Apparently one of the Crystal projectiles had smashed right into the main courtyard, where pilgrims lined up to offer offerings to Dwayna. About a dozen had been killed outright. Scores were killed upon landing on the hard stone floor. There were still others who might be saved, however.

Aegwynn watched as Meerak collapsed to his knees in sheer horror. He had seen his vision become a reality. He had not done enough to change the future. He had failed the task Dwayna had given him. He could only but stare out at the devastation.

Paulus almost ran into Gwynn as he ran out the abbey's main entrance. He momentarily paused at the macabre picture he was presented with: a dark red sky, whose light was twisting everything it touched, a landscape that was becoming more and more distorted and shattered, and only the first few of what must be hundreds of wounded.

Having a keener sense of his duty than Meerak, he turned to Gwynn, and demanded, "What are you doing, just standing around? Help them!"

Slowly, realization crept into her bones, and she seemed to be given new life despite all the signs of death around her. She asked, "But what about my expulsion? I can't heal if I'm not a monk." She did not say this as a threat, or as a bargain. She earnestly meant good, and thought she was raising a valid point.

Paulus realized this. In anyone else, he would have berated them for such obvious selfishness in a time of trial. But he ordered, "We can't afford to loose any healers right now. Go!"

She desperately tried to hide a smile of triumph, but failed. It broke out across her face like magma from a volcano's caldera. Paulus saw this, and gave her a withering stare, which reminded her both of her duty, and of the situation.

As she ran to her first patient, a woman with a bone sticking out of her left arm, she felt the same guilt she had felt before, but from a different source. Why did she feel joy in this time of suffering? What right did she have to benefit from this terrible crime? She realized, with such shock that she misspoke the words to her spell, that this was the answer to her prayer. And she fell into a greater despair greater than before.

* * *

Sermo saw his chance when one of the Palace Guards cried out, "My King!" The Mesmer looked up, and saw another Crystal behemoth hurtling towards them. Immediately he began muttering a quick spell, and then made a loud show of yelling, "No, Tor! We're too far away!"

Tor looked at him, and nodded. And then the both of them fled from the estimated impact area.

Adelbern stood up and was preparing to run when he felt a terrible weight upon his back. He looked, and saw there was nothing there. He tried lifting his left leg, only to strain, sweat, and swear as it was lifted up only an inch off the ground. It was as if he had aged a hundred years in an instant, all the good his body did him. He knew Sermo had something to do with it, and his feelings of antiquity was mitigated by rage.

Then he looked up and saw crystal death almost directly above him. Frantically, he tried to move, but the aches that had formed in his body refused him. He looked up again at the jagged monstrosity, now so close that the whistling it made as it flew through the sky could be heard clearly. He was peaceful, as most old men are when they see death, though a part of him wished it had happened in a more glorious fashion.

"My King" hollered one of the guards as he tackled his monarch. Adelbern's body, being light with age, and unarmored, flew quite a distance. This was amplified by the crystal's impact. The old man landed hard, and heard a wet crunch as his right leg struck the hard cobblestones. He was shocked to be alive, and glad for the chance at revenge against this upstart noble, but descended into unconsciousness as he was struck by a flying rock.

Sermo saw all of this, standing off to the side, and halfheartedly swore. Whether or not his plot was discovered and punished was beyond his control. There were too many witnesses now to do anything, he noted as he saw a Palace Monk and several guards rush over to the body of their King. He looked at the crystal monstrosity embedded in front of the Palace ruins, and noted with some satisfaction that the soldier had died in saving the King.

"What do we do now, boss?" asked Tor, genuinely interested. This turn of events was certain to make things rather interesting, though he had no conception of the boredom he had been in before.

Sermo sighed, and looked up to the red sky. The eddies and swirls that spawned this cataclysm were slowly dissipating, and the sun was setting, as evident by the countryside's steady darkening. "We'll have to survive, Tor, and then see what happens next."

* * *

_Well, that's the Pre-Searing. Next chapter, we start the game proper. Not too happy with the style the chapter is written, it feels sort of rushed, but whatever. It fits the haphazard spirit of the event._

_Timeoffire45:  
Thanks for the compliment, once again. And thank you for reminding me not to dumb down my style. _


	7. Brave New World

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

* * *

**  
**

**Brave New World**

Ascalon's death throes lasted two years. Its emerald fields faded to the color of rust as the Crystals – now a permanent feature of the terrain – drained the land of its life. The dust caused by the explosion of the Orrian peninsula still floated freely in the air, and the sky, rather than a healthy blue, was a palette of different shades of red. Lakes and wells had turned to rancid, pitch-filled traps as a result of the Charr's scorched earth campaign. And almost all the local fauna had become extinct; those creatures that survived were deadlier variations of whatever they had once been.

Yet despite all this, the beaten, broken, and bruised kingdom cleaved together under the command of its stony king. There but for the grace of Adelbern.

Sermo wished, as he kicked a rock down the dusty hill he stood on, that the old man would die. He stepped back so the dust raised wouldn't touch his leather armor. He didn't wear silk anymore, he may have lost his fortune, and his title as 'Lord' may as well be that of 'clown' for all it got him, but he still had his pride. He still had that, and his dream of Kryta.

A few steps behind him, Tor coughed. Two years had not changed the warrior at all: he still wore the same platemail, still carried the same sword, and still lapsed into long stretches of comforting thoughtlessness. He even still served Sermo, but if he were to be asked why, he would use the word loyalty only because it sounded right. Truth is, he could think of nothing else to do.

"Where's the Necromancer?" asked Sermo. He kicked another rock down the hill.

"Still inside the city. He's just got some errands to finish up," said Tor.

"And the Monk?"

"Should be here any minute."

They waited in silence, each left to his own thoughts, or absence thereof. Sermo glanced at the blasted landscape, with its brown hills, and the occasional ragged crystal erupting from the earth. No wind caressed the open wounds this land bore: it had seemingly been completely abandoned by the gods.

Then came Aegwynn's silk-soft voice, undamaged by the dust and the toil, "Sorry I'm late, commander!"

Aegwynn had, like all Monks, been forced to enlist in the Ascalon Army, by royal decree. She had consented without protest: borne down by guilt at her apparent selfishness, she hoped to teach herself empathy in healing her fellow Ascalons. Alas: she was as lonely now as before. She still sought to find solace in the arms of different men, and as a result she had no empathy to spare; she was too busy feeling sorry for herself.

"We were to meet in front of Ascalon City at noon." demanded Sermo. He was not angry, merely annoyed at being disobeyed.

She had been with another soldier the evening before, but had not wanted to break the embrace she found herself in that morning. Such was her lust for tenderness. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"You needn't worry, Malum. Minor matters have delayed Adelbern. He'll be a few minutes late." Morton's voice slithered out from the shadow of a crystal. Morton soon followed, climbing the hill slowly.

Sermo did not bother turning to face him, and still faced the ruins of Ascalon, "And how long have you been waiting there?"

Gwynn jumped into the conversation after saluting, "I'm sorry to interrupt, commander, but why is the King important to this?"

"He'll be accompanying us in our mission," said Sermo.

"Which is?" asked Gwynn.

Morton spoke up, disinterestedly, "We're to destroy the Krytan Embassy that's been set up outside of Ascalon City, and execute the group as enemy spies. Here," he gestured towards the south, "you may be able to see their encampment."

Gwynn focused in the direction Morton pointed. She could only make out, through the haze, a few vague shapes around a fire. And then she realized that she should be shocked, "But why must we kill them? They've done nothing!"

Sermo spoke, "Do you think the King cares?" A horn sounded in the distance, causing Sermo to turn his head, "Ah, speak of the demon itself. He's here." Without raising his voice, he ordered, "Move out," and was obeyed by all.

The group of four slowly descended the hill to meet with Adelbern and his two bodyguards. Once they were close enough, all four kneeled.

"Rise, soldiers," said Adelbern. His voice had grown stronger in the years past, and his frail body toughened. He grew accustomed again to constantly wearing heavy armor, and to the thrill of each battle. In his country's death, he found life and vitality, "Come, let's not waste any more time. I want these scum cleared from my soil by nightfall."

Gwynn hesitated a moment, then knelt and stuttered out, "But, your highness, why? They've done nothing to us!"

Adelbern turned towards the girl, and his face softened in compassion for what he saw as childlike innocence, "My dear, you were not there for what they did to our kingdom, to our people. You did not see their barbarity. I can forgive you for your ignorance, but I cannot forgive them for their crimes."

"No," called a strong voice, "She is right. They have done nothing yet. We should be able to hear their cause for ourselves."

Everyone turned around to see Prince Rurik slowly marching past the shattered Gates of Ascalon city. Adelbern's face quickly matched the crystals' jagged surface, "Rurik, be gone. This is a matter of state security."

"How does a group of three priests impinge on the security of the state, father?"

"Do you not remember the Guild Wars? Their barbarity? Do you not remember how they violated ceasefire after ceasefire, in the interests of snatching at more and more land? No, so long as any enemy, be it Charr, Krytan, or even whatever remains of Orr is on Ascalon soil, the kingdom can never remain safe."

"But this is a different Kryta now, father." Rurik was trying to be cajoling, though he knew power is what moves a mountain, not sympathy. "The White Mantle have created a republic. Thinks are different now. Perhaps these priests are examples of this."

"Once a snake, always a snake. These priests are nothing but charlatans who've tricked their way to power!" Rurik spat.

Rurik matched his father's haughty words, "Paranoia and ignorance do not become you, father." Then, he tried sympathy once again, "Please, let me talk to them. Let them into the city. Let their actions, not ill memories, act as evidence against them."

Adelbern stared into his son's eyes; Rurik stared back. Finally, the older man broke the gaze, and spat, "Fine, go." But as Rurik passed, Adelbern said softly, "But be warned: your increasing gall will not go unpunished," and then, as a curse, "_son_."

Rurik simply kept walking, calling out to Sermo, "Lord Malum, I would appreciate it if your group would accompany me, as protection."

Sermo rolled his tongue over his lips, and glanced at the old king, who had stopped to see which side the nobleman would choose, and the young prince. Rurik had not ordered him to follow, so the Mesmer could decline. To do so would show that he agreed with Adelbern, thus earning him the King's favor. But, if he protected Rurik, he would be putting himself in the young maverick's camp. There could be no fence-sitting now.

"I will accompany you, your highness," said Sermo. Adelbern gave a withering stare at the Mesmer, and then marched back into the city.

Rurik smiled, "My thanks."

Sermo gave a thin smile back, hoping he made the right choice. As they walked, he reasoned that the King would die at some point, and his son would replace him. His job was merely comprised of outwaiting any sort of threat Adelbern could possibly muster.

But the Mesmer was not satisfied. Two years ago, he had been thrust from a world of certainties, where he knew his place and how to keep it, into this brave new world with where structures, motives, and camps were much less clear. He had no idea what to do, save that if he was to live to a ripe old age, he must get to Kryta. The situation was practically humorous: a simplification in aims had led to a complication of choices and situations. The gods were cruel.

Lost in thought, Sermo did not realize that they were being attacked until Tor knocked him down to charge a Grawl. The grey, deformed humanoid yowled a war cry, and three more Grawls appeared from behind large boulders, and a crystal.

Immediately Rurik took charge, "Casters, behind me! Tor, to the left!" The Prince then sprinted towards the closest enemy, and swung his fiery sword at the Grawl's head. The creature blocked with the head of its hammer.

Tor obeyed without responding, and swung his sword at a Grawl's small, thin neck. The beast copied its compatriot, and blocked with its hammer. Acting fast, Tor kicked the beast in the stomach; as the creature reacted by curling up slightly, the Warrior stabbed downwards, into its back. Red blood poured forth from the wound, and the creature fell to the ground, howling. A moment later a faint blue light sealed the wound.

"Ulodyte!" Tor yelled out, before he took the creature's hammer to his gut.

"Understood," shouted Sermo. He muttered a few words in the lilting tongue of Lyssa, and pointed his cane at the Grawl wearing a gold headdress over its crest of black feathers. Then, "Morton! Finish the Ulodyte!"

Tor had been knocked to the earth by that last blow. He was dazed for a moment, but then saw the creature rearing up, ready to bring the hammer down to crush his skull. Quickly, the Warrior rolled to the left; the hammer sent dust flying into the air as it struck the earth. By the time the Grawl had brought the weapon up for another blow, Tor was on his feet, and preparing to thrust his sword into the creature's torso.

The Grawl reacted fast: it redirected its swing into Tor's side. The Warrior managed to catch the blow on his shield. His hand was lined pain as it caught the full force of the weapon's momentum, but he managed to stay upright, and force his sword into the beast's heart. Before the wound could be healed, Tor withdrew his sword, and decapitated the Grawl: now that it was surely dead, it could not be healed. As he kicked the corpse to the ground, he saw another Grawl charging at him, screaming revenge.

Ignoring the two remaining hammer-wielding Grawl, Morton sprinted to the healing-beast. Seeing that there was a new threat, the Ulodyte turned its attention from its comrades. In the meantime, Rurik decapitated another one of the warriors, his flaming sword cauterizing the wound. The Prince then ran to assist the obviously wounded Tor.

"Feed me," whispered Morton as he grabbed the creature by the throat. The Ulodyte yipped and howled for help as it felt a steady cold spreading from the touch. The final Grawl turned its attention from Tor to see what was happening, when Rurik's sword pierced it from side to side.

The Ulodyte barked out a series of cacophonic syllables in a desperate bid to heal what had been swallowed by Morton's magic, and thus hold back death. When the last word left its lips, the last Grawl exploded in a cascade of purple flames, leaving nothing but a twisted mash of flesh and bone.

Morton stood back, pleased with his work, and began chanting.

Tor collapsed on the earth, winded, and nursing what he believed to be a broken arm. "Monk," he called out in a strained, pleading voice.

Gwynn, who had thus far remained silent, ran up to the Warrior while whispering a prayer in a sing-song voice. Faint blue light swirled around Tor's body, and he felt the pain in his arm and tightness in his chest dissipate. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.

"My Prince, are you all right?" asked Sermo.

"Yes, fine." Rurik turned to face the majority of the group behind him. "Well done, soldiers-"

He was interrupted by the sickening wet snap of bone and flesh tearing. He spun around, his sword ready and eager, to find the Grawl they had just slain standing upright. Two lacked a head, and one was mostly charred bone.

"Relax," said Morton, "They're mine now."

Used to their party member's oddities, Sermo, Aegwynn, and Tor began walking in the direction of the Krytan's Camp. "My Prince," said Sermo, "Are you coming?"

Rurik shook himself from his dazed horror, and moved to lead the party.

* * *

Another half-hour walk saw Rurik speaking to a dark-skinned man in the pure white and gold robes of the White Mantle. The Ambassador was camped atop a small hill, against a large dead tree. He was seated in the middle of a series of tents, with white-armored knights and soldiers patrolling the vicinity against all manner of foes – beast or otherwise.

"Greetings Ambassador Zain. Let me be the first to welcome you to Ascalon," said Rurik as he sheathed his sword, and knelt low into the red earth.

Zain returned the gesture. "Ah, Prince Rurik. I thank you for your kind words. I will admit, I was nervous about this meeting. Our initial reception here in Ascalon City has been" he paused, looking for the right words, "less than warm."

"So I have heard. I apologize for my father. He means well and does what he thinks is best for his country, but sometimes his stubborn memory of the last Guild War gets in his way."

Zain gave a sad smile, and nodded, "The days of war between our two nations are over. We are here in the name of Kryta to give aid to Ascalon." He opened his arms wide in a gesture of friendship; the light from the first he stood behind lent the gesture its warmth, "We ask for nothing in return, and wish only to be of service."

Off to the side, Sermo watched. He was so used to playing the fauning fool in diplomatic matters, that it became easy to see in others' actions. He wondered if Rurik suspected the obvious poison behind the honey.

"We would be foolish to allow our pride to stand in the way of such a generous offer."

Sermo shrugged, and then wondered how the ambassador was able to keep his robes so clean in the middle of a wasteland.

To his credit, Zain was either a very good actor, or completely sincere in his attempts at virtue and praise, "Now I see why the people of Ascalon so admire you, Rurik. When it is your turn, you will be a good king. A good king indeed."

Rurik smile, "Thank you, Ambassador. Now I must take my leave. I will talk with the king. Perhaps I can change his mind and gain you access to the city." The Prince bowed, and called for Sermo's party to gather around him. The group bowed towards the Ambassador, and obeyed their prince.

As he watched them depart, Ambassador Zain whispered a quick prayer, and wished the Prince, "May the unseen ones protect you."

The walk back to the relative safety of Ascalon City was undisturbed. In the distance they could hear the dull _yap-yap-yap_s between Grawls. The sun was setting, though they knew this only though the slow and steady darkening of the red sky above. In the many shadows they could hear the soft scuttle of devourers – made massive by both the crystals' strange magic and natural selection – but did not have the energy to put down anything save a direct and obvious threat.

And so, exhausted, they walked in silence. Only Morton was the least bit happy. He did not mind the decay of the outside world: he knew it would happen eventually. The sight of bare trees did not depress him, and the crystals that had drained the life from the land itself fascinated him. He was upset that his research had been interrupted by this war against the Charr, but he was confident that he would outlast it. All this living was merely a distraction from his research, from death itself. It would soon pass.

They arrived at Ascalon City when the sky was the color of long-dried blood. Rurik stopped his group, and quickly thanked each individually for their efforts. He took his time with Sermo, however, "Your show of loyalty will not be forgotten. If you ever need any sort of assistance, ask. I am in need of strong allies, after all."

Sermo nodded, and bowed, "Thank you, my Prince. Rest assured, my men and I can be depended upon."

Rurik saluted and walked away. Sermo turned to his group, "You're free to disperse for the evening. We meet again at sunup."

Each person nodded, and went their separate ways: Tor walked towards the crude tavern that had been set up in recent years. Gwynn, slower, and shamefacedly, followed him in the direction of the tavern, though for different reasons than those of the Warrior. Morton wandered away to the shack he kept, while Sermo walked up the hill to report to Warmaster Tydus.

"Ah, Lord Malum," said the Warrior, "You must have done something to upset the King." The Warmaster was strangely friendly, like a child who knows another one is in trouble.

Sermo's heart sunk in his chest, though he did not show it. "What do you mean?"

"I received special orders for your party a few hours ago. Upon returning from your little mission with the Prince, you and your party are to report to the Northern Wall Outpost for a scouting mission."

"Who gave the orders?" If he was lucky, he could bully the commander into giving the mission to a different group.

"The King, I'm afraid." Barradin handed an abused piece of vellum with black letters scribbled onto it to the Mesmer. While Sermo read it to verify its orders, the Warrior said, "You'd best hurry up and gather your men. It's not safest to scout in the dark."

Sermo slunk away. When he was alone, he swore to the darkness, realized it couldn't be helped, and set off to find his party.

* * *

_Yes, yes, I'm still alive. I'm sorry It's been a month and a half since my last update. Life/sloth got in the way. I'm going to try to update every week now, if only to get out of Ascalon ASAP. _

_Trajicx:  
The sort of criticism I've been hoping for. While I don't think I can really tone down the metaphors (they're how I get across exactly what I mean when a single word doesn't work the way I want it to), I have tried to increase the length of the battle scene in this chapter. I'll keep working on that, mind you. Thanks for the critique. _


	8. Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, & Short

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

* * *

**Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, and Short**

Tor swung his fist, knocking aside the thin, piecemeal cloth that served as both the tavern's door and most of its southern wall. After stepping inside, he marched towards the motley collection of boards, barrels, and boulders that served as a counter, and demanded a drink. He withdrew his own wooden tankard (patrons were now expected to bring their own containers after the Searing), and watched carefully as the drink was being poured.

He took a small sip; even though the Church of Dwayna now ran the pubs, there was no certainty that the old men and women who ran the establishments were not watering down the ale. Satisfied, Tor drew a small pouch, and flicked a piece of gold at the barkeep. He then trudged to a corner where thin, pale rays of light poked through the many holes in walls and ceiling, and sat down on the dirt floor.

A few minutes later, Aegwynn poked her head inside the pub. She hesitated after seeing how crowded it was, and then noticed Tor. She slipped inside, and sat down next to the Warrior.

By now Tor had finished his drink, and had begun sharpening his blade. He remained silent, even after the Monk had sat down. He knew she was there, but her presence had little effect on his psyche.

She was silent for a few seconds, expecting him to offer her some kind of greeting. When she understood that he was not going to initiate some form of conversation, she began, "How's your arm?"

He responded without looking up, "Fine."

More silence. Then. "You did well today. Two dead Grawl is pretty good."

Tor grunted, and turned his sword over so he could sharpen the other edge.

By now the sun had almost completely set. The tavern was caught in a dismal twilight, dimming the mood of its patrons. The barkeep, noticing this, was in the process of lighting the firepit in the middle of the room.

"So, how'd you get into the army?" Gwynn asked after another unbearable silence.

Methodical and slow, Tor answered, "I was serving as Sermo's bodyguard. When he joined, I followed."

"So, you've been protecting him for two years?"

Tor grunted.

"Does he still pay you?"

Another grunt.

She hesitated, and timidly asked, "What do you think of him?"

Tor automatically opened his mouth to speak, and stopped. He had no idea what to say. It wasn't that he had not bothered to form an opinion of his employer: he simply did not have the capacity. As when someone purchases a run-of-the-mill house, expecting all the basics, only to be surprised when there is no kitchen, or stairs leading to the second floor, there was no place in Tor's mind for an idea of others. Shocked, but having no need to show it, he responded, "Don't know."

"But you've been with him for more than two years?"

Tor replied, his voice a little more fragile, "Don't know." The Warrior was confused now: no one had ever tried to make simple conversation with him: they either ordered him about, or asked questions to do with memory ("what happened today?"). This absence, ever-present, but just noticed, was disturbing.

Gwynn furrowed her brow, unsure of how to continue the dialogue. Her voice died before it crossed her lips, and she turned her head to stare at the rough red stone in the dirt between her legs. A few silent minutes passed as both wrestled with their own demons: Tor with his confusion, and Gwynn with her timidity. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around, and saw the same man she had slept with the night before. She gave a shy smile, which he returned. "Where'd you go? I woke up, and you were gone," he asked.

"She had a mission," came a new voice. Gwynn turned around, and saw Sermo stepping through the cloth door. "And she has another now. Clear off."

The young man looked at the Mesmer with surprise, and then glanced at Gwynn. She mimed an apology and stood up. "What is it, commander?"

Sermo rested on his cane, and said, "Tor, stand up as well. We'll need a Warrior." He waited for the young man to disappear, and for his bodyguard to rouse himself from his self-contemplative stupor before continuing. "The king's ordered us to scout the area north of the Wall while it's dark." The Mesmer began to move towards the entrance, "Follow me."

They all stepped out into the city's darkness. Sermo whispered a monosyllabic word to his cane, and the largest gem inset within its head lit up like a star, giving the three enough light to navigate with. "I'll explain more when we've found him. Here, Monk, come with me. Tor, you know where the Necromancer makes his home, correct?"

Tor, having forgotten his previous mental crisis, nodded.

"Good. Find him, and bring him to the Northern Wall outpost. We'll wait for you there." When he saw Tor nod he said, "Good, now run."

After sliding his sword into the scabbard attached to his waist, the Warrior broke into a steady jog towards the eastern section of Ascalon City. Morton made his abode beneath the shadow of the ruined stone walkway that had led to the Ascalon Academy headquarters.

Satisfied, Sermo began in the direction of the Northern Wall Outpost. "Let's hurry up," he called back to Aegwynn, "I want to finish this mission before sunrise."

* * *

"This is no place for the weak and timid, Mesmer. What is your business here?" Zachary stood tall on his wooden soapbox, desperately trying to look intimidating. However impressive his red and bronze armor might be, it did nothing to improve his rank of squire.

Sermo quickly uncrumpled the piece of vellum he had hastily shoved into a pouch at his waist. "I'm here on orders of the King. Let me pass."

Squire Zachary stared at the writing, and attempted to look like he understood what it said. Like most Ascalons, he could not read. He hummed once or twice, and then thrust back the orders, and said, "Very well. Go on ahead." Then, less certain, "I believe Captain Calhaan is waiting for you?"

Sermo walked past the sentry without another thought. Aegwynn, however, stopped, and said, "thank you. There will be two others: a tough-looking man in armor, and another one, more pale. A Warrior and a Necromancer. Please let them through."

Zachary bowed awkwardly, "Of course, ma'am." He watched as she disappeared into the strengthening darkness, and then berated himself for his foolish display of chivalry.

"Captain Calhaan!" Sermo shouted to get the man's attention. The Captain was a good example of the Ascalon Army's policies concerning its solders armaments: use whatever you can get your hands on, no questions asked. Even the most trusting of soldiers would have a hard time believing that he would have found polished steel armor, with enough platinum and silver left over to make it look white in an honest manner. Lord Malum had always believed the captain had slain a few nobleman and stolen their purses. He had no intention of being added to that exclusive club.

"Lord Malum," the captain gave a nod, nothing more. It irked Sermo to see such blatant disregard for social conventions when addressing a superior. "The King, in his wisdom, has decided to send a scouting party to see why the Charr attacks have-"

Looking bored, Sermo interrupted, "I know why we're here, captain. Is there any information you can give me regarding the Charr camp's placement?"

With the apathy of one who knows something no one else does, Calhaan responded, "Just to the north of here. Keep going, and you'll see the ruins of a mill. It's just in the pit to the north-west."

Sermo nodded, "Wonderful. I'll leave the moment the other two members of my party arrive."

Now the trap was sprung. "I'm sorry, but there's no time for that. Your orders make it explicit that you are to leave as soon as I've finished talking to you."

Sermo was silent for half a second as the cogs in his mind whirled and spun. "No room for leniency then." He wasn't asking: he was merely echoing the obvious while he tried to come up with an excuse for delaying.

"None for those who betray their king," said Calhaan.

Sermo refused to take the bait. "Very well." He turned to the Monk, "Aegwynn, let's go."

She grew wide-eyed in surprise, "But what about the others?"

The Mesmer's voice grew as hard and distasteful as the crystals that dotted the landscape, "We have our orders, Monk. Let's go." He walked right past Captain Calhaan without saluting, down the stone steps, and into the courtyard behind one of the few working gates in the Wall. Seeing Gwynn had not followed, he called up, "Let's go, Monk!"

Gwynn sputtered, and turned towards the captain, hoping to plead with him. But with Sermo's cane now gone, there was only a dark, implacable shadow which commanded, "Get going, woman." Believing there was no other option, she tried to hold back the tears of fear, and slowly descended the stairs. The gate was opened, and the two stepped through.

"We'll keep the gate open 'till sunup. If you're not back by then, we'll send our condolences to your family!" called down Calhaan. Sermo raised his cane to show he understood, and the two set out.

After a few silent minutes trudging in the dust, Gwynn began to weep openly, "Aren't we going to wait for them?" she wailed.

Sermo responded without looking stopping, "Do you really think they'll let those two through?"

"You mean we're all alone?"

Sermo's silence was indicative of a 'yes'.

Aegwynn's terror and selfishness was brought to the surface. Here she was, in the dark, with bloodthirsty beasts waiting to devour her. She was on a suicide mission to boot. She could not take it: she did not want to die, though she had never put much thought or effort into living.

When Sermo realized that the Monk had stopped walking, and was now on her knees, wailing, he stopped, turned around, and spat, "Get a hold of yourself, woman! Do you really believe that your weeping will change the situation?" He ran his right hand down his face, smoothening his goatee. "Do you think that Calhaan will take pity on you, a poor girl lost, alone in the wide world?" In a rare expression of frustration, he demanded, "Do you even think at all?"

On his part, years of feeling paralyzed and out-of-control came to the surface, expressed in his critique. "The only way we'll have a chance of surviving is if you stop behaving like a child, and be silent. Calhaan doesn't expect me to come back alive from this mission. I intend to spite that bastard, along with the one who set this assassination attempt in motion. I intend to complete this fool's errand." Then, with a special kind of loathing in his voice, "With or without you."

He turned around, and began walking again. He spoke without turning to face her, without even stopping, "You can come with me if you want. Or you can wait until the noise you make attracts devourers, or maybe a pair of Grawl."

Through tear-glazed eyes, Aegwynn saw the light from Sermo's cane slowly disappear. When it looked to be gone altogether, she wailed, "Wait! Please!" and stumbled to her feet. She haphazardly traversed the terrain, stumbling every which-way on rocks and dead roots. She feel to her knees once, the pain announcing that the friction had torn the skin from one knee. But immediately she sprung back up to her feet, and blundered in the direction she desperately hoped the Mesmer had traversed.

She almost wailed with joy when she saw the image of Sermo and his light-giving cane, both distorted by the tears in her eyes. She ran up and grabbed his shoulder, "Please don't leave me. Please-"

"Be silent, and follow, then." His voice was close to a whisper, thought still held its dominance. "And for Lyssa's sake, stop that sniffling. We've got to be very quiet if we're to live."

* * *

Tor and Morton approached Captain Calhaan. The Necromancer spoke first, "Captain, we are here under orders to meet with Sermo Malum. Has he arrived yet?"

Unseen, in the darkness, Calhaan smiled, "Sorry, soldiers. The good Lord hasn't come yet. Go wait by the fires; I'm sure Warmaster Grast had another task, or a quick briefing for him. He won't be long."

* * *

Another hour's slow traverse over the hills and crags that lined the landscape brought the pair to a large pool of tar, surrounded by Gargoyles: hideous creatures, formerly found only in the Catacombs, where some Necromancer's magic had brought the stone carvings he had made to life. Though the Catacombs had long since collapsed, the creatures had made it out somehow, and had become quite the pest in the last few months. They garbled away in their quick, staccato tongue, sounding much like pebbles falling against rocks, concerned with their own petty existence, and not noticing the two scouts hiding in the darkness.

Sermo quickly ducked behind a large spur of rock, and pulled Aegwynn down next to him. With a quick word, the light from his cane died. "Listen carefully," he whispered to the Monk, "We cannot fight here," for there were at least a dozen of the monsters, "Instead, we'll have to sneak past." As he explained what he was planning, he permitted the Monk to glance past their shelter, to take in the surrounding landscape.

The pool lay at the bottom of a circular depression, within which the gargoyles were camped. They had managed to find enough deadwood to light one or two fires on the eastern shore of the pool, and this was where they were mostly gathered. One or two were knee-deep in the tar itself, apparently acting as impromptu guards for their encampment. The western edge of the pool, however, was placed right up against the edge of a steep slope.

"We'll climb across that ridge. They shouldn't be able to see us, if we're careful. I'll go first, you go second. But wait for me to get across before you begin." Sermo tapped her on the shoulder, drawing her attention from the landscape to his face, "Do you understand?"

He waited for her to nod, and crawled out from behind their shelter. He managed to strap his cane to the back of his armor, leaving his hands free. He crouched, half-crawling, half-shuffling towards the western edge of the pond. He kept his eyes averted from the light of the gargoyle's fires, lest it ruin his eyes' adjustment to the dark.

A few strenuous minutes, and he was at the pond's edge. Keeping low, he waited, checking the slope for loose rocks and treacherous points; he wanted to ensure there was nothing to give him away. Though he was unaccustomed to giving thanks, he was glad for both the faint moonlight and the dull remains of the light that escaped from the gargoyles' fire. When he was certain he had planned out an appropriate path, he glanced over to the two gargoyle scouts, to see if they were suspicious of anything. He realized, with some amusement, one of them was literally asleep on its feet.

It was slow going, but he managed to make it across. When his feet were firmly planted on the northwestern shore, he gave a slow wave to Gwynn. He hoped that she could see him.

Peeking out from behind the spur, the Monk gazed into the darkness, waiting for the signal, whatever it would be. When she thought she saw the vague glinting of yellow light off of polished black leather, she slowly began to crawl. When she reached the edge of the pond, she looked at the two gargoyle sentries. The sleeping one, coincidentally, jutted awake, and swung its arms to restore circulation. But Gwynn, in her paranoia, thought she had been seen. So she scurried up the slope, trying to cross depression as quickly as she could.

Then she hit a patch of loose soil, which sent her careening into the pond of tar. Unwanted, a jagged scream escaped her throat, followed quickly by a dull splash. Immediately all the gargoyles looked in her direction and saw her.

When Gwynn managed to stand up, scratching as much of the tar off her face as she could, she saw the advancing gargoyles. And she wailed, "Help, Sermo!" She cast her gaze desperately, looking for the Mesmer. There was no sign of him in the darkness. She tried to call out again, but she was interrupted by a hot orb of lightning hitting her in the chest, and sending her flying backwards onto the slope.

When the Necromancer had awakened the gargoyles from their stone slumber, he thought it prudent to teach them a few elemental spells, so that they might better serve as guards. When he was discovered by others of his order, the corpse had been so deformed by lightning strikes so as to make it unrecognizable. In order to confirm the cadaver's identity, they had to summon its spirit directly.

"Help!" she screamed, as another orb of burning energy impacted with her chest. Each blast left a perfectly circular burn wherever it touched. Had she not been panicking, she would have remembered to cast a few healing spells, if only to elongate her life. But she was so caught in her paroxysm of fear that she could do nothing but scream. "Hel-" was interrupted by another impact, knocking her unconscious.

All the gargoyles were now in the pond, to stay within casting range. Some of the more adventurous ones had discovered that the pond was only waist deep at its nadir, and were slowly advancing so as to have first pickings at their dinner.

Then Sermo's voice rang through the air, "Get out of the tar, Monk!" Every gargoyle turned around to face this new threat. When they saw Sermo standing at the edge of the tar pond, with a burning brand in his hand, the more intelligent creatures desperately tried to escape the death-trap. The Mesmer didn't give them the chance.

* * *

When Aegwynn awoke, the first thing she notices was the smell of burning flesh. Then she saw Sermo standing over her, with his hand poised to slap her face. "Wha-" she was interrupted by a heavy smack to the face.

"Stupid girl," Sermo said, disdainfully, "Think before you act!"

The slap had fully awakened her, and she noticed the extreme pain she was in. But now she had the sense to cast healing spells.

A few minutes later, and she was up and ready, if a little sore. In the meantime, Sermo had switched on his cane's light, and what had once been the tar pit was now filled with the charred corpses of thirteen gargoyles.

When he saw that she was up, he said, "Let's go. We've wasted enough time already."

"What time is it?" she asked, still a tiny bit groggy.

"Past midnight."

It took them another hour of steady, silent trudging, but finally Sermo quietly announced, "We're here."

Gwynn looked up, and saw the bare skeleton of what was once a grand, two-story mill. The cloth covering its vanes had long since been scavenged by desperate refugees, while the wood and stone were pilfered by humans and Charr alike. What was left could barely be considered any form of shelter. But its dark outline stood out against the red haze behind, informing the Mesmer that there were massive fires just over the hill.

Without a word, Sermo dropped to the earth, and began crawling up the dusty hill. For a moment, he was annoyed that the dust was dulling the leather, but he managed to banish such thoughts. Gwynn decided to stay low, but wait at the bottom of the hill, for which Sermo was – given her last example of stealth – mildly appreciative. Before he reached the crest, he whispered a quick word to douse his cane. Then he poked his head over the top.

* * *

The general lightening of the gloom that pervaded Ascalon's night signaled that the sun was rising – though its rays were still hardly able to penetrate the atmosphere of dust caused by the Searing and the Cataclysm. By now, even Tor had a hard time believing that his master had not yet arrived.

"We've been sitting here for over eight hours!" One could tell he was angry, not because he raised his voice, but because it would be impossible for any well-adjusted person to sit still for eight hours, knowing they were being lied to. "What happened to Lord Malum?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, but he hasn't arrived yet." Calhaan gave a smile: he enjoyed playing the simpleton. "Please, sit down by the fire."

Then one of the archers on the wall gave a cry, "Captain! One of the scouts has returned!"

The color drained from Calhaan's face as he stared at the Warrior. It was Morton's intervention that saved the captain from a bludgeoning: "Tor, don't bother with him. Go see who it is."

Tor gave Calhaan a blank stare, which, given the circumstances, he found terrifying, and then ran down the stairs, to the open gate. Once there he saw the distant form of Sermo, his body cloaked in the white sheen marking an enchantment, running ever closer. Every so often the Mesmer would have to stop, and mutter a few quick words to keep the spell active. Then he would continue running. There was no immediate sign of any enemy, but as the light increased, a great cloud of dust just over the horizon was slowly revealed.

When Sermo reached the gate, he gasped for breath, and called out, "Close it!" Then he fell to his knees, and let the sweat drip from his brow, staining the already darkened earth. His body shock with each ragged breath he took.

Wisely, and before Captain Calhaan had the chance to call out, "Ignore that command!" one of the archers manning the wall operated the mechanism which slowly pulled the gates shut.

A minute later, after he had been brought some water, Sermo managed to gasp out, "Massive encampment, north. We were seen, I escaped." He took another frenzied sip from a generous soldier's canteen, and then said, "Their army is coming," he wheezed, "as we speak."

Calhaan, his senses mastering him, commanded two runners be sent: one to gather reinforcements, another to inform Adelbern about the situation. While he was managing the situation, Morton asked Sermo, more out of polite curiosity than actual concern, "What happened to the Monk?"

Sermo replied nonchalantly, "Don't know. I had to leave her behind."

Morton nodded, as if he understood that it was the only thing to do.

Then one of the archer's cried out, with a tone that emphasized the latter part of phrase 'controlled panic', "Captain! Come up here!"

"What is it," shouted Calhaan as he ran up the stairs to the top of the wall. When he saw the massive Charr army, that covered almost the entirety of the latter half of the horizon, his blanched face paled even further. "Oh Grenth," he whispered, almost as an afterthought. "Retreat! We need to retreat to the bunkers north of Fort Ranik! We'll fight off the army there!"

Already his men were obeying his command: those who had not seen the advancing army understood from the reactions of those who had the seriousness of the situation. In a rare act of genuine concern, Calhaan stayed behind to ensure that the evacuation was proceeding properly. He ordered different soldiers to help carry supplies and weapons, and more runners to be dispatched.

Finally, he turned his attention to Sermo and his two remaining party members. "Can you two carry him out of here?" he asked. When he saw Tor nod, he turned his attention to the Mesmer: "I'm sorry about the suicide mission, but I was under orders. I hope you understand."

To his relief, Sermo nodded. "I do understand. So I hope you'll return the favor." He then spoke a few, slow-sounding words in Lyssa's tongue.

Before Calhaan had the chance to ask, "What?" he felt a terrible weight upon his back. It nearly brought him to the earth, it was so powerful: he found himself gasping, sweating, and straining just to remain upright. He managed to get a "Why?" out, before he dropped to his knees.

Sermo smiled as Tor acted as a crutch, "Forgive my revenge, just as I forgave your greed." Just before he disappeared from sight, Sermo called from up the stairs, "Give my regards to the Charr!"

The steady rhythm of a battering ram against a gate announced their arrival.

* * *

_I lied. Every two weeks. We'll try that, and see how it works. _

_For 500 points, todays chapter title comes from which famous philosopher? Knowing this one might tell you where I'm going with the character of Sermo Malum, as well as explaining his actions. Speaking of which, don't worry: I'll tell you what happened to Gwynn. I'm not going to just flash-forward through that part of the mission, like I did with the Searing._

_almostinsane:  
For the love of God, I don't mind uninformative comments, nor do am I such a rampant secularist that any mentioning of God rankles me, but, **please**, vary the comments a bit. The last comment was the only exception to a series of cookie-cutter congratulations! And no, Gwynn won't be courting Morton any time soon. She's a selfish, emotionally sterile girl. She has trouble with empathy for 'normal' people, let alone the walking contradiction that is a necrophobic necromancer. Besides, I'm a cynic: I don't tend to see love as a magical cure-all._

_Timeoffire45:  
Bugger. Fixed that little grammatical error, thanks for pointing it out. Yeah, I know it's awkward, but I tried that huge two year leap a whole bunch of ways, and this was the best take. But this is the purpose of this entire project: to improve my writing skills. Next time I need to do something like that, hopefully it'll be better. And thanks for your comment on the battle scene.  
As for tips in writing a battle scene... Well, what I got from that last little exercise was that it's better if you have more people in the fight. Shifting the reader's attention between different combats help capture a haphazard spirit. As for expletives, eh. They don't work for me, but they could for you. I know words like 'fuck' are great because they're so short, and capture a whole host of vulgar connotations, just what a battle needs. And as for those epic one-on-one battles every kind of 'epic' movie enjoys, I haven't yet found a good way to write one without it sounding drawn out and contrived. Hope I helped._

_t.z0n3:  
Thanks for the comment. I hope you'll post something with a little more substance in the future._

_Apology in advance: sorry if the responses to your comments are a little jagged. I spent the last two hours watching House instead of doing whatever I should be doing. But the meaning and emphasis behind the responses are still accurate. If I was feeling a little nicer, I might have tried to present the same ideas just a tad sweeter._

* * *


	9. Goodness Gracious

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

* * *

**Goodness Gracious**

Aegwynn tripped over a loose rock as she ran, bringing her down to the warm, parched earth. Immediately she scrabbled to her feet, ignoring the pain brought about by torn fingernails and scraped flesh. She had to run: two Charr were right behind her. She could hear their howls and cries, each one ever closer than the last.

She half-ran half-slid down the dusty hill, her eyes cast desperately askance as she sought for a hole, a ridge, anything to hide in and evade her pursuers. Again, in her fear, she tripped halfway down the hill and tumbled the rest of the way. This time she allowed herself a moment to relish in the pain; then panic reasserted itself and brought her quickly to her feet.

She glanced behind her, though she could not see in the dark. Already the two Charr had ascended the crest of the rise. The darkness kept her hidden, but dawn was slowly arriving. Soon her pursuers would be able to follow her with their eyes, in addition to their noses. As she burst into another frenzied sprint one of the creatures raised his snout into the air, took a few whiffs, and barked out a husky command, before racing down the hill. The second Charr followed suit.

Gwynn leapt over a large rock, always heading east. She did not register the pain in her legs – though they were already beginning to grow heavy from overexertion – nor did she register the blurry vision in her right eye – blood from a cut on her forehead was steadily leaking into her cornea. Her only thoughts were of desperate escape, and a frenzied, hateful mantra: _he abandoned me, he abandoned me, he abandoned…_

* * *

"What happened to the Monk?" Morton asked, more out of morbid curiosity than any sense of concern.

Sermo, who had now managed to regain both his breath and his ability to walk, answered with equal detachment, "We were spotted by a scout. It gave us away before I could kill it. Illusion of Haste allowed me to escape."

Morton nodded, extrapolating his desired answer from the Mesmer's omission. Then there was a loud crash, and a roar of triumph. The Charr had managed to break through the gate, and would be soon rushing towards Ascalon City.

"I think it's time we hurried back to Fort Ranik," said Sermo. "Morton?" he asked.

The Necromancer nodded, and removed his map from a pouch. Over the past two years, it had required some redrawing, but it still retained the same basic shape, with only vague differences in runes as places were made, renamed, or even annihilated. He looked up at both Sermo and Tor. Both answered his unspoken question with a nod, the former answering more quickly than the latter. The Necromancer turned back to his map, and began speaking the harsh words that named Fort Ranik in Death's tongue. There was a terrible moment of silence, and then they disappeared.

* * *

By now the sun's light had pierced the gloomy wall of dust that covered Ascalon. It was bright enough for the Charr to see Gwynn, and still she had found no hovel within which to hide herself. In sheer desperation, she forgot her hatred for the Mesmer that left her to this terror, and began a simple prayer to Dwayna: _please Dwayna, please Dwayna, please…_

She felt more and more tired as the adrenaline drained from her. She had lost a fair amount of blood, and had even begun to feel light-headed. There was little hope for her now that the Charr were but a stone's throw away. Still, out of sheer, selfish self-preservation, she carried on.

But her footsteps were less frenzied, and more wearied. She began to notice the sound of her breath, and how strained it was becoming. She noticed the blurred vision, and how the left arm of her habit had been torn off completely, revealing pale, tattooed skin, and dozens of tiny scratches.

Her legs were growing heavier with each step. She almost lost her balance when she placed her right foot on a stone, and left it there a heartbeat too long. But she forced herself to keep going, with all the determinacy that kept her visiting the pubs each night. She had to survive, though she did not know why.

Finally, she fell. She did not trip over a root, or simply loose her balance: her left leg, after hours of use, simply gave up on her. And so she hit the ground hard. She knew she had to get up, had to escape, but the earth was so comfortable, and the temperature was just so warm. The humming of nearby crystals seemed to her to be akin to a lullaby the Monks sang to her when she was a child. She slowly surrendered herself to the idea of sleep, out of profound exhaustion.

She wasn't even afraid when she heard the two Charr bicker about her. She didn't even care when she felt a powerful fist collide with the back of her skull, sending her down further into the darkness.

* * *

"So what do we do now?" asked Morton.

Sermo took a deep breath to steady himself – he was still feeling the effects of a several hour, magic-boosted marathon – before answering, honestly, "I don't know."

Morton nodded, receiving the statement as it was presented. He knew the Mesmer was no fool, and that he was far more capable in these chaotic situations than he could ever hope to be. And so the three had ducked under some wreckage in Fort Ranik, to avoid being noticed in the general pell-mell while formulating a plan that would ensure their survival.

All sat, not speaking, and ignoring the shouts of panic and authority marking events in the world beyond their cramped little cave. Sermo sat in the silence of the contemplative, Tor sat in the silence of the thoughtless, and Morton sat in the silence of the grave. Each was left to their own thoughts, or absence thereof. And each preferred this: they had lived thus far alone, and it seemed that this was the state that would accompany them to the grave. Like most of mankind.

Then Sermo spoke up, "Let's find Prince Rurik."

It took almost half an hour, but they managed to locate the Prince near the upper level of the Ranik Ruins. He was swinging his fist, and giving orders to different soldiers. He caught Sermo's eye as the Mesmer made his way up the hill, making a show of leaning on his cane.

"Lord Malum," Rurik shouted, and gestured for him to hurry up. Sermo exaggerated his hobbling to the point where it was just believable. "We have you to thank for this early warning, so I hear."

Sermo gave a thin smile, saluted, and said, "Anything for my country, as the King says." He gave the word 'king' slightly more emphasis than was necessary.

Fortunately, Rurik immediately caught on. "The King does not always know what it best," he said slightly sardonically. "Seeing as how, regrettably, you are missing a team member, and are unable to heal yourself because of that, I want you to take your men and man one of the catapults…" he trailed off and consulted a map he held in his left hand, before announcing, "One mile to the northeast. Guard it, and fire as often as possible. There may be groups coming through as well: coordinate your fire with them."

Sermo stood straight, saluted, and then winced at the imagined pain in his leg. "Understood, my liege," and again there was undue, though not unnecessary, emphasis on the word 'liege'. He spun around on the ball of his 'good' foot, and ordered his two remaining party members to head out.

* * *

Gwynn awoke to find herself slung over one of the Charr's back. She was groggy, and distracted by the exponentially ascending pain in her legs and chest, and so it was several minutes before she realized where she was. Her first instinct was to panic, to weep and cry. But, for once, she was able to control herself, because she knew her situation would be worse if the Charr knew she was awake.

She saw the slowly passing dust pass beneath her captor's padded feet, and distracted herself from the undesirable position she was in by counting the number of rocks she saw. She was at sixty-seven before noticing the screams and cries of Charr and humans alike. She heard the scream of a ball of fire pass over her, before crashing somewhere in the distance. She forced herself to remain still, while her captor kept the same pace, apathetic to the suffering of the world around him.

Keeping her body loose so as to appear unconscious, she waited until the sound of the semi-distant melee was loud enough before whispering a small prayer to Dwayna. Corpuscles of light briefly swarmed her body. They faded before long, along with the pain.

She gasped with relief, and then prayed that the Charr had not noticed. Either he was so intent on the road ahead so as to remain ignorant, or he simply did not care what she did so long as she remained docile, for he made no move.

She sighed with relief before gasping again, and shutting her mouth. And still the Charr did not notice, and plodded ever onwards.

* * *

The three managed to arrive at the catapult unblemished. They passed by the mutilated corpses of man and Charr alike, but paid them little heed – save for Morton, who now had a sizeable undead army at his beck and call.

"Tor," Sermo asked when he turned round the bend formed by a small wall of solid, red rock, "You know how to operate this?"

Tor nodded, and marched past his employer. He spent a few minutes gazing it over, speaking different words while watching different parts glow with occult energy, and testing the strength and durability of different parts of the mechanism with his hands. After a few minutes, he announced in a dull, uncaring monotone, "The fireball spell inscribed into the wood still works fine, but it's missing the firing lever." He was silent for a second, and then gestured towards the headless – and gnawed – corpses of the former operators, strewn about like so much carrion, "They must have been surprised by the Charr, who didn't have time to destroy everything."

Sermo nodded, and asked, "Is there anything we can do, then?" He hoped for a negative response.

To his disappointment, Tor said, "There are other catapults in further states of disrepair. I'm sure we can salvage a lever from one of them."

Sermo, feeling his exhaustion grow ever more pressing over the last hour, wearily sighed. "Then take some of Morton's minions, and find one. We'll," he gestured to himself and the Necromancer, "stay behind and make sure no further harm comes to it."

Tor accepted the order and nodded. He set off without another word, almost unaware of the four distended and bloodstained corpses that followed him.

Sermo turned towards Morton, and said, wearily, "Look after the catapult. I need a nap."

* * *

Tor scrabbled down a stone-studded slope, careful not to loose his balance. He had just caught sight of the rickety, wooden frame of another catapult, along with the bulky feline form that marked the Charr. He was as like unto a lion on the prowl: all instinct, and no conscious thought.

Behind him, having little luck in remaining upright, all three of Morton's minions – two Charr corpses, one armless, and one trailing intestines and other miscellaneous organs from a deep gash along its stomach, and one headless human – rolled down the hill. To avoid being bowled over, Tor leapt into the air as one slid right past him, raising a shower of pebbles and dust.

When the three cadavers hit one of the cliff faces, they picked themselves up as well as they could, and stood, waiting for directions from Tor.

He hugged the wall, and peered round an opening, so as to catch a glimpse of the Charr; there were three of them: two were heavily armored, and carried grotesque crescent-shaped axes. The third Charr wore only a loincloth made from leather, though purple paint marring his brown fur marked him as an important magician.

They were gathered around the catapult. The mage-Charr seemed interested in its base, and patrolled around it, inspecting how the mechanism was bolted into the stone below. He occasionally barked orders to his two bodyguards. After a few moments, one of the warriors put down his axe, and leaned down to try and fiddle with the catapult's base.

Tor thought for a moment – he had no mind for social interactions, but battle managed to draw himself out from the infinite darkness that was his mind. The Charr were directly between this opening and another. He risked another glance, and saw that beyond that opening there was a little path hugging the cliff-wall, leading to the left. Beyond that was a distant, open plain dominated by a fractured portion of the Wall.

In an instant a plan came to him like a meteorite to the earth. It was his form of divine inspiration, though he would never have thought to call it that. He whispered out his command to the three corpses that accompanied him, and the moment his words left his lips they lurched to act.

The Charr-corpse with the disemboweled belly was the fastest, and managed to reach its target – the heavily armored Charr still holding its axe – first. It wrapped both arms around the creature, and lifted him into the air. It lost absolutely no momentum, and before its victim could realize what was happening, it was at the edge of the cliff; both bodies went careening over.

The other two bodies were less successful. The armless Charr-corpse managed to latch its remaining claw into a chink in the other warrior-Charr's armor, but failed to do much more than that.

Tor had sent his one human-corpse to attack the mage-Charr. He weighed his options, and in a heartbeat he ordered the human-corpse to assist his remaining minion in dealing with the other Warrior. The minion lumbered off to join its fellow. Tor whirled out of his hiding-spot, withdrew his sword from its sheath, and barked a challenge to the mage-Charr. Immediately he felt a terrifying weight drop onto his back.

By now, the Charr-corpse had managed to drag its victim out from beneath the catapult. But the Charr was using this to his advantage, waiting until he had ample space to move before choosing to spring himself upon his attacker. It was about to leap to its feet, when it felt those very same appendages lifted into the air. The lone Warrior-Charr looked over, and saw the human-corpse was carrying his other end, while the Charr corpse held his upper body. And both were slowly, steadily moving towards the cliff.

The mage-Charr spat out what could only be its form of laughter as it spun its bone-carved wand, and launched a burning projectile at Tor. Unable to dodge, the Warrior took the full magical blow into his chest. The ball of fire passed straight through his armor, and burned the flesh instead. Tor widened his eyes in pain, but he did not scream.

Using his one free hand, the warrior-Charr scratched and clawed at his assailants. He gouged fur, flesh, and what little blood remained, in the Charr-corpse, but to no avail. With all the strength of rigor mortis, the two corpses held fast to their victim. Rage was slowly turning into fear as the two mockeries of life carried their victim like some piece of furniture to be thrown away.

Tor tried to take once step forward, and it took all the effort his body could muster. The tiny cloud of dust raised by that one boot seemed to echo out amidst the plain. He took another step, but a second ball of magic fire scorched his right shoulder, and he had to step back to keep his balance; he knew that if he fell in this state, he would never stand up. He grimaced as a third bolt of pain surged through his shoulder.

By now the minions had reached the cliff's edge. Tor saw the Charr-corpse step over the cliff, one foot in the air, and he tried to call out, "Wait!" He could barely manage a whisper. He watched as it disappeared from sight. The warrior-Charr howled in agony as he hit the edge on a forty-five degree angle, and scraped flesh and fur as he fell. The weight of both bodies pulled the human-corpse down into a fall. Tor watched his hope for salvation disappear.

He was quickly distracted by another blast of agony. He could not stand much more of this, and the Charr took pleasure in toying with the Warrior, drawing out the pain, taking the time to walk around to Tor's back, and burn him there: left shoulder-blade, right-shoulder blade, and then in the small of the back. Still Tor managed to stay standing. He had one more chance, and so he bided his time.

He waited until the last remaining Charr was directly in front of him. He knew it was aiming for his face, knew he had one last chance for survival. When the mage-Charr raised its arm to summon the final blow, sweating and huffing with agony, Tor forced his arm to swing; he forced his fingers to release the sword, and then collapsed to the earth as he watched the weapon fly forward, and impale itself in the Charr's throat.

Tor waited for the spell to wear off before daring to rise. When he did, he saw that his blow had been true, and that his enemy had collapsed face-first, driving the blade deeper into its flesh, to the point where its tip erupted from the back of the Charr's neck. Wearily, he pressed the sigil on the ring he had on his left hand. Immediately his pain was relieved as a small healing spell washed over his body.

He withdrew his sword, and staggered over to the catapult. It took a few minutes' work to remove the firing lever. He used it as a crutch as he began the laborious, uphill walk that would take him back to Sermo and Morton. He felt no pride at having won, nor fear at having almost died: just a lion's satisfaction at having survived.

* * *

When Tor returned to the catapult, he found Sermo sleeping, guarded by half a dozen corpses in various states of decay – a side effect of the magic used to animate the necrotic flesh: the three suicide cadavers that had accompanied Tor were by now little more than skeletons, rapidly fading to dust at the bottom of some drop. Morton was nowhere to be seen.

He glanced at the prone form of the Mesmer, who had used his jacket to form a pillow. He knew it would not be best to disturb him, and so set to work on reattaching the firing lever.

It took a bit of delicate work – reattaching bolts, and ensuring that the complicated iron mechanism at one end of the pole fit properly with the rest of the catapult – but Tor was soon finished. He looked around, and saw that Morton had still not reappeared.

He called out, "Morton!" It echoed down through the naturally formed corridors of stone, and had died to silence before he heard any sort of reply.

"I'm right here," was accompanied by the scratching sound of pebbles slipping down a slope.

Tor turned around quickly, and winced, for his body was still sore. As he addressed the Necromancer, he touched the signet ring again, and audibly relaxed as the spell's cool touch washed over his body. "The catapult's ready," he announced.

"Good. Turn the catapult three degrees north-west-north." Morton scrabbled back up the way he came, and called back, "Wait for my signal. I'll confirm the target." He disappeared from sight.

Dutifully, Tor obliged the Necromancer. When the weapon was pointed in the proper direction, and pulled the lever back, to arm it. It clicked into position, and wooden surface was doused in light as each swirling incandescent character lit up with a deep, orange light. One hand on the lever, ready to push it back and fire the glowing ball which had appeared in the mechanism's center. He stood still, waiting.

Then he heard Morton's voice: "Pull!"

* * *

Aegwynn realized something was about to happen when her captor's pace slowed considerably. The guttural sounds of other Charr were growing increasingly louder as well. She shut her eyes, and willed her body as limp as possible, hoping she would pass for dead. She was surprised that no one appeared to hear the rapid, intense beating of her heart.

Her captor stopped moving for a moment, and shared a few words with some comrades before starting up his run. It was to his credit when, after the group behind him was annihilated by what sounded and felt to Gwynn like a great ball of fire, the Charr did recoil. He didn't even slow down.

Two hours later, the two arrived at what sounded and smelled like a Charr camp. Once again, she hid as best she could, and simply waited to see what would happen to her, though she prayed under her breath. After another few minutes, her captor used one massive claw to pick her up by her waist, and drop her on the earth. Then there was a snap.

She waited until she could no longer hear him before opening her eyes. She saw that she was in a dark, cramped hut made from stone, wood, bone, and covered with leather hides sewn together. The only light came from the cell door, formed by several long poles of wood and bone kept in a grid pattern.

Slowly, as in shock, she stood up, and walked over to the door. She ran her finger along several rows. Her natural detachment to others was exaggerated as she recognized the bones from her anatomy classes back at the Abbey: there were more femurs than anything else, being the longest bone in the body. But here and there she saw a rib, to add a dash of flavor to the already macabre atmosphere.

Someone behind her coughed. She spun around, to see that there were four other people in this cage. There were three men, and one woman. All wore what must have once been finery: silk and cotton robes of differing loud colors, now torn and faded to a sickly grey. They all had pale, thin faces, along with thick greasy hair and multiple scars. One of the men was missing fingers on his hands, another had a chunk of his ear torn off.

Then the woman spoke to her, "You should try to get some sleep, while you can. They'll wake us all at nightfall." Her voice was ruined and ugly, like snow churned with mud.

The enormity of the situation was finally beginning to dawn upon Gwynn: she had been captured by the Charr, and would now be their slave for the rest of her – probably short – life. She began to breathe heavily, panicked. Her legs grew weak, and she fell to her knees.

With an unnatural kindness, the woman leaned forward and stroked Gwynn's hair. Her proximity revealed that she had once been a beautiful woman, whose fortune had been marred by multiple nicks and scrapes, along with three long, jagged claw marks, which stretched from ear to ear. "Calm down. Panicking will do no good here." She paused, ignorant of how to continue. Then she added, trying to be helpful, "But sleep will." The compassion in her voice was out of tune, having had little reason to use it in the past few years: the query came forth like a dissonant chord. "Come now, what's your name?"

Gwynn, desperately trying to calm down, stuttered out, "Aegwynn."

"My name is Asperia. Please," she said, pleadingly, and unaware of how twisted her voice had become, "Be silent."

* * *

_Lo and behold: the Elementalist has returned. I'll give out a little hint: I introduced all six characters who fill a profession in the Pre-Searing section of this tale. Here's the Elementalist, and now there's only one missing. _

_This entry's reference is a little more recent than the last one (by about three centuries). Once again, brownie points to whoever it is that guesses it._

_almostinsane:  
This story has six main characters. While over the span of its reach they might fade out, and then fade back in, eventually we will have all six professions together._

_Tom Jackledon:  
Thank you for the compliment, but there's still always ways to improve. For example: I could stop fucking up the grammar, or the flow of the story as in the instance you've kindly pointed out. Thanks for catching these, by the way. _

_lowcal:  
Love the Artemis Fowl books. I didn't realize it until you pointed it out, perhaps an instance of cryptomnesia. But Sermo is not some run-of-the-mill evil genius: he does well in social situations because he has a talent for it. He wouldn't be able to compose some breathtaking sympathy, but he could start - or hush - a scandal._

_That's all for now. 'Till next time._


	10. Twilight of the Ideals

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

**Twilight of the Ideals  
**

Morton's dark voice spilled forth from some unseen cranny, "Thirty degrees, west-north-west."

Tor dutifully swiveled the catapult, and pulled the level twice: once forward, once back. The catapult glowed a deep, flame red before it fired its magic into a moving Charr warband.

Sermo stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the battles below. He leaned forward on his cane, and, pleasantly detached from the commotion below, mentally noted where the red-armored Ascalon Army was succeeding, and where its soldiers were being ground into only so much useless meat. But there was also some pride in his party's use of the catapult: Morton's talent with geometry – an odd skill for any caster, let alone a Necromancer – was surprisingly useful to that end.

"Lower the incline by three degrees," came Morton's voice. Tor subconsciously trusted the reasoning behind this command, and did not bother to question it. He pulled the lever once, and was about to do so again when the sound of a trumpet ground through the air. The Warrior paused, waiting to see what would happen, and then pulled the lever again.

"That's Rurik's guard," Sermo called out to Morton. "Can you see him?"

The Mesmer heard Morton cry something, but that was drowned out by another trumpet call; this time the sound was dampened by distance. Another moment passed, and its third call signaled that it was even further away.

Morton tried again once he felt the trumpet was distant enough, "There's a large group of soldiers moving through the canyons. I could not tell whether Rurik was with them or not." Then, "Fire again." His deep voice moved through the air like the north wind.

Sermo nodded to himself, and turned back to watch the battle. So the Prince was off to battle; the Mesmer began contemplating all the different implications of this act, and so was surprised when he heard the Prince's voice from behind him, "Lord Malum, a word, if you will."

Sermo spun around, and walked towards Rurik. "My Prince," he muttered, and then gave a quick bow, "how can I be of service?"

Rurik smiled, though it could barely be seen through his coarse black beard, and the dark bronze of his helmet. "I've just sent a group, including a soldier masquerading as myself, to the northeast." His tone was brusque and businesslike, almost like his father's when the old King spoke of warfare. "My hope is that it will draw enough of the Charr forces to the east, so that we'll be able to break through the western line, and do some damage thereabouts."

Sermo gave a knowing smile, which belied the dread which was now comfortably at home in his stomach, and said, "and you're looking for experienced, trustworthy," he placed a touch too much emphasis on this last word for it to be misconstrued. This kind of verbal parlay was becoming more and more common in Sermo's life; while he did not despise subterfuge, he found it annoying that he was being forced, more and more, to rely on it, "men to assist you in this endeavor."

Rurik nodded, his hidden smile returning to his grizzled face, "I'm glad we understand each other. Are your men ready to move out?"

Sermo answered without even glancing back at Tor and the hidden Necromancer, "Whenever you are ready, my liege."

* * *

Aegwynn knelt on the cage's dusty floor, looking less like she wanted to pray, but as if she could not bear to stand up. A few naked rays of light managed to slip into the cage, which did little to alleviate the general darkness. Instead, the light served to illuminated Gwynn's red eyes, tired and swollen from holding in so many tears.

She tried to make conversation in order to keep down the sobs she had been repressing for the last few hours, "How long have you been here?"

Asperia closed her eyes and sighed, though this gesture was unseen in the cage's darkness. She desperately wanted to sleep, but the presence of this newcomer demanded her attention: if she would not give kindness, no one else would. The other Mages were too bitter – or too broken – to offer anything but scorn.

"Almost two years now. I was captured a month after the crystals fell from the skies." Her voice was tired and distracted. She sounded much the way that ill people do when they try to converse.

Gwynn didn't miss a beat, "And what were you before?"

Asperia responded with the same lack of concentration, "I was a noblewoman. An Elementalist trainee, too. Water magic was considered a womanly art, back then." She gave a short burst of laughter; it sounded as if she were coughing.

"And you were captured in some battle?"

She took a deep breath, though this was more of a stifled yawn than an attempt to summon some reserves of courage. Asperia knew what had happened was traumatic, and horrible, and all manner of other negative adjectives. But she plowed right through it with all the plodding inexorability of a glacier. It was all she knew how to do. "No. The Charr had lain siege to the academy at Drascir. They were eventually allowed entry by a traitor, who had hoped that he would be spared. Those who they did not kill, they carried away as slaves."

Several minutes of silence passed. Then, though she knew it was a stupid question, Gwynn asked, "Yourself included?" She knew it was a foolish question, but she had to ask anyway, if only to fill the silence.

Asperia had almost fallen asleep. She grunted, signaling the affirmative. Before Gwynn could as another question, she summoned up the energy to be blunt, "I know you're still in shock, but it would be best if you went to sleep now. They'll rouse us at dusk, and keep us at work until dawn. It would be best if you just went to bed." Her voice came quickly, as if she wanted to say her piece, and be done with everything.

Still feeling pangs of trepidation, Gwynn sought to carry on the conversation, "But how shall I sleep?" Again she cursed herself for how naïve this remark made her seem. But she was comforted by the sound of the older woman's voice, if not by its content.

"It's warm enough during the day so that you have no need for a blanket. As for a pillow, well, use your arms, or your shirt." The Elementalist spoke without opening her eyes.

Gwyn was flabbergasted by this suggestion. "But – amongst men, I…" her voice broke as she realized the hypocrisy in this sudden sense of propriety.

Fortunately for her, Asperia was too tired to notice it, "Whatever you wish, then. Sleep well." Then she drifted off.

Realizing that she would get no response, Gwynn lay down on the warm earth. She turned herself so her back faced the bars of the cage, and averted her face from the sun. She found that she was more tired than she realized, and soon followed Asperia in – temporarily – traveling away from the ruined world she found herself in.

* * *

Rurik, Sermo, Tor, Morton, and two bodyguards managed to break through the Charr's line without any undue harm. Rurik and his two bodyguards, supported by Tor, managed to decapitate, impale, or otherwise butcher any Charr they encountered on the field. Sermo, his skills less useful in a grand mêlée than in simple combat, merely skittered along with the group, wary of any harm that might befall him. And Morton was busy raising the bodies of each Charr slain. In a relatively short period of time the party was accompanied by eight hulking Charr cadavers, each in relatively good condition, with no missing limbs.

Once behind enemy lines, the party managed to avoid all incoming Charr warbands. Once they were forced to hide in the grand shadow of the wall while one Charr with a particularly keen sense of smell paused and rooted around in the dirt and rocks, before being beckoned to join the distant battle by his fellows. Another time the party had to throw their weapons behind a dune, before assuming the role of prisoners, being escorted by eight noble Charr warriors. There were a few agonizingly tense moments when a large warband passed seemingly close enough to see the mortal wounds that marked the torsos and, in one case, neck, of Morton's reanimated corpses. When they were left alone, all breathed a sigh of relief, and Rurik congratulated Morton's handiwork. The Necromancer gave a terse nod, recovering as he was from a severe pang of necrophobia.

It was late in the afternoon, closer to the evening, when the party stumbled upon a dry, dusty basin. A thin stream of tar slowly rolled through the Charr camp built there, and disappeared down several deep, thin crags. The entirety of the warcamp was cast in shadow due to its depression, and different grotesque totems, made of human bone and leather, served to accent its already gloomy atmosphere. Sermo and Rurik were crouched up near the top of the ridge, behind a pale red boulder.

"It's only a small warcamp, thinly populated," Sermo muttered to Rurik, "it would be a trifle to simply go around."

Rurik knelt with one knee flat against the ground, with the other foot firmly planted into the red soil. Taller than Sermo, he had an easier time of peering over the boulder's edge, while looking rather regal at the same time. "No," he said.

"Beg your pardon," and then, as an after-thought, "Lord?"

"Do you see those huts, at the northern most edge?" Rurik turned his head to gauge Sermo's reaction. When he saw a nod, he continued, "It's in typical Charr design for a cage. They've captured Ascalons, and are using them as slaves."

Sermo's face went blank, but only for a heartbeat. "The camp is manned by at least two dozen Charr. It might be more prudent to find an easier victory farther north." There was an awkward silence, which informed Sermo that he might have made a mistake in voicing such an opinion. He sought to qualify it, "We may have had a chance if the Necromancer's minions were here, but they were reduced to ash and bone several miles ago."

Rurik looked surprised at the Mesmer's cruel pragmatism. "Lord Malum," he said coldly, "it is our duty to rescue whoever may be enslaved by these beasts." He turned back to face the enemy warcamp. "Besides, it would be a blow, however small, to the Charr war effort."

Acutely aware that he had earned his would-be benefactor's ire, Sermo was quick to offer reparations, "You're right. I apologize for my selfishness," he said, convincingly. He lapsed into silence for half a minute as he thought, and then spoke up, "I believe Morton may be able to help us with a strategem, however." He slipped away towards where the others were camped. Rurik stared after him in a distrustful silence: the more he saw of this Lord Malum, the more he disliked him.

After consulting privately with Morton, and then Tor, Sermo explained the plan to the whole party. It was a simple affair, but wholly dependant on enough Charr being gathered in a close enough spot. Upon hearing it, all of Rurik's doubts concerning Sermo faded away, and he offered the Mesmer a congratulory handshake.

"Don't thank me until we've freed the slaves, my liege," said Sermo, somewhat ruefully.

* * *

Tor, Rurik, and the two bodyguards leapt over edge leading down to the basin, howling bloody murder. They were bunched up close together; so close that Tor repeatedly knocked into one of the bodyguards as he slid and scuttled down the rocks and pebbles that pocketed the slope.

The Charr camp was roused almost immediately. Warriors began charging up the depression to meet the paltry four foes invading their camp. Those at the northern edge of the camp began racing to get to their enemies before those at the southern edge could. It was a chilling sight: close to twenty brown, black, and orange coated Charr, each covered in glinting steel, and armed with serrated blades and axes, all running – some on two legs, others on four – to be the first to kill the invaders.

Sermo stood at the lip of the basin, a safe distance away from the invaders. Morton crouched at the edge, seemingly apathetic as to the sortie's outcome. Both were a respectable distance away from the Charr, ensuring that they could both escape if the battle went south.

Then the Mesmer cried out, "Now! Tor!"

Immediately the warrior responded. Just before the Charr were in reach of their blades, the Warrior grabbed one of the bodyguards by the head and held it back, revealing the gap between the helmet and breastplate. Tor then stabbed his sword through the guard's throat, and dropped the body. He then took several steps back, and watched.

Rurik was aghast, and howled, "You traitor!" He was then forced to look ahead, and parry three different blows from three separate Charr.

Almost whimsically, Morton chanted out a long string of discordant words, and snapped his fingers. As if watching a dull battle in the Ascalon Arena, he then leaned back, winded, and watched.

The guard's corpse exploded in a shower of green-gray ethereal light. Then long wisps of power slowly expanded from where the body had lain, and defined themselves. When they had assumed the shape of transparent green-gray tentacles, they lashed out with all the fury of death scorned, entwining about the closest Charr warriors. More than a dozen found themselves held by this dark power, unable to move. Two more were caught as they entered the well's radius, and all slowly began to feel tired.

Rurik and the remaining bodyguard dropped to the earth. They were not targeted by the well's magic, but they still felt the disconcerting and frigid hand of death grasp about their insides. Out of sheer terror, the bodyguard managed to find the gall to stand up, and run. He passed out of the well's range, and collapsed.

Tor simply walked around the eldritch circle, and proceeded to attack the remaining Charr, held in dark rapture by what was happening to their comrades. Two were slain, and one was badly injured before they realized what was happening.

The Charr held inside the well began to feel as if they had finished a day's battle in only a few seconds. Then, with growing terror, one realized that his pelt was fading to an ashen grey. Others began to bark their fear as they watched their fur grow darker, less dense, and lose its luster. They all recognized what was happening: they had seen it happen – though at a far slower pace – to their elders and fathers. They were aging years in a manner of seconds.

Then the oldest, a warrior whose fur had been dyed orange to mark his prowess, went limp in a tentacle's grip. The orange of his fur could be barely noticed amidst the rapid darkening, and then decaying of his flesh. An arm dropped off, and then faded to dust before it touched the ground. As the youngest were given a prequel to what they would eventually undergo, they found more of an urge to struggle. In a show of cruel irony, however, they no longer had the strength.

The well faded just before the last Charr, who had just been sent down from the Homelands, would have died. The arcane tentacles simply faded into thin air with an almost disappointing lack of ceremony, and he fell to the earth, tired and aching. As testament to his courage, and to his rage, he staggered to his feet, weakly grasped his sword, and raised it above his head, hoping to strike down the only human within reach: Prince Rurik.

The sword wavered in midair, as the Charr found it hard to hold his hand steady. He raged at his lost youth, and at the lack of heroism in his death; the experience he lacked, and the life he had been prevented from living. He embodied all the tragedies of warfare, presented in a new and novel package. He hoped to find some satisfaction in his first kill, at the very least.

Then the blade clattered uselessly to the ground as his body was engulfed in purple flames. The unfortunate Charr fell backwards, and slide a few feet before he was caught by a prominent boulder. He did not stand up.

By now Tor had slain every other Charr stationed in the warcamp. His enemies had been on edge, and trepidatious, distracted by the display of necromancy that had slain so many Warriors. It had been easy pickings: if Tor had truly cared, he would have been disappointed at the meager showing. He shouted, "The camp is clear," to Sermo, who nodded in response.

The Mesmer walked down to assist his Prince, "My Lord, are you all right?" he asked, proffering his hand in a show of assistance.

It was batted away, and Rurik leapt to his feet, suddenly endowed with rage that turned his face red. "You planned that murder!" he shouted, gesturing towards the dark smear that marked where the bodyguard had lain. "You told your puppet to kill him, so he," here he gestured to the gaunt form of Morton, who was leaning back on a rock, recuperating from this expression of power, "could use him!"

Sermo saw no way out of this, and so he dropped whatever pretensions he may have held in front of the Prince. "It was the easiest way to clear the camp, and it featured a minimal loss of casualties. I did what I thought prudent."

"You had a man, a fellow Ascalon, killed in cold blood!"

"One life, in exchange for those held hostage inside those cages. It seems like a good rate of exchange." Sermo matched Rurik's righteous fire with his own natural frigidity.

"You bastard!" Rurik spat. "When this is through, I'll have you martialed for murder! For treason!"

"You wouldn't dare, Rurik." The Mesmer planted his cane in the earth, and leaned on it. "You have few enough patrons amongst the aristocracy, and the army, as it is. Certainly, the people love you. But you'll find the third estate ultimately has little power in a monarchy." Sermo began twirling his cane about in an uncaring fashion. "You need me, much as I need you." He began walking past the Prince, down into the camp. "It would do you good to abandon your idealism. Realpolitik is what makes a good King. Not virtue."

Confident that he had put the Prince in his place, Sermo joined Tor at the northern edge of the camp. He stared at the bone cages for a moment, and then ordered the Warrior to break them open.

With one powerful kick, Tor shattered the bone fastened to the lock, and the door swung open. Light, however dull, swept inside, illuminating the wretched inhabitants.

"Wake up, all of you," shouted Sermo. "We've got to get gone before sunset…" his voice trailed off as he recognized one of the prisoners, slowly awakening, and guarding her eyes against the light.

"Interesting," he muttered to himself, as he mentally confirmed that it was indeed Aegwynn he saw.

* * *

_Apologise for the long absence, but there's a semi-good reason, if you keep reading onwards. This instance's chapter title is a corruption of a philosophical work. Any guesses as to which character it applies to? Anyone?_

_t.z0n3  
They'll be fine. Sort of. No character is ever really 'fine', but so far as they can be, they will be._

_Almostinsane:  
Thanks, glad someone's enjoying all this._

_Diaz Rivaut:__Now, when I read that, I wasn't sure on how to take it: as a compliment, or as a criticism? I am sure you meant it as the former, but it gave me pause for thought. Writing, as like any medium, has its limitations. But the written word also has the ability to go where no film ever could. My main criticism of recent science-fiction and fantasy books are that they do read like a movie. What I enjoy reading are those written around the time of Frank Herbert, or Tolkien. There I find a particular eloquence that modern books lack - think of the different between Dune, and his son's bland regurgitations thereof. I've been trying to go for that eloquence, which is why this chapter took so long. I've started to reread those works in the hopes I'll see just how they're able to do it. Hopefully you'll all see a shift, however small, in my diction. Mar asalahma._

_lowcal:  
Yes, she was. You'll see why and how her disposition changed as the story goes on._

_Hopefully the next update will arrive sooner. But we'll see. I'm glad I'm almost through ('bout half-way) with the Ruins of Ascalon._


	11. Those Taken, and Those Saved

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

**Those Taken, and Those Saved**

"You bastard!" The normally tepid and timid Aegwynn had found sudden strength in her anger.

Even Sermo was surprised to see her meekness vanish so suddenly. But he was quick with a rebuttal, "Be silent, girl. I did what I deemed necessary." His tenor swept through her outrage.

Gwynn paced towards the door, and raised her hand to slap Sermo. "You were only concerned with saving yourself!" She allowed the arm to swing outwards.

Sermo stepped backwards to avoid the attack. Then he delivered a quick blow to her stomach with the head of his cane. "Yes, I left you behind. I was the one who had a haste spell; you were completely useless. And one of us needed to report what we saw." His words were as fast and fierce as his attack.

He turned around, and ordered Tor to break open the second cage.

Asperia, who had by now awoken, helped Gwynn to her feet. "Are you badly hurt?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

Gwynn muttered a healing spell to halt the pain, and then glanced upwards at her benefactor. In the last light of the sun, she was able to see the damage inflicted over two years under the yoke of the Charr: thin scars criss-crossed across her face, marring a once pristine face. Her once-dark hair had thinned and faded with malnutrition, and her half-open mouth revealed blackened, and even missing, teeth. Her clothes were torn, though she had styled them so as to retain her dignity, and revealed pale skin contrasting with all manner of psoriatic rashes. Gwynn took a step backwards to steady herself, embracing the urge to distance herself from the only one to show her support.

"I'm fine," she stuttered, distractedly. Then she heard Rurik's basso, and, suddenly desperate to escape this gargoyle, ran towards the Prince.

"Gods! How long have you been out here?" Rurik was talking with a man so unkempt as to look more barbaric than the Charr. His grey hair was matted about with all manner of greases and dried liquids, while a thick, bedraggled beard that thrust outwards in six different directions managed to hide most of the would-be visible scars. His armor from when he was a Flaming Scepter Mage was mostly intact, held together at the waist by a brown leather sash, most likely salvaged from another prisoner's clothing.

"Since the skies rained fire and destroyed Ascalon." His voice was monotone, his features blank. He was as dark and cryptic as the Voice of Grenth.

"Two years! You've been slaves for two years!" Rurik's mind wheeled at the imagined suffering. But rather than attempting to visualize it fully, he pressed onwards, "Are there others?"

"Yes. The remnants of my unit, the Flaming Scepter Mages."

Rurik began to feel as if he was talking to a skull. This confusion led him to repeat himself, "Soldier's who've been slaves since the end of the war?"

The mage, named Erol, nodded.

Rurik was silent for a moment, and then made the only decision he felt he could make. "Where are they being held."

Sermo, who had been half-listening to the conversation, was now startled into paying attention.

"In the ruins of the old capitol, Drascir."

Rurik turned to face the north, "Then we go to Drascir."

Immediately Sermo forced his way into the conversation, "My Lord, night is falling. If we don't head for the wall now, we may all be captured."

His words fell on enraged ears. Rurik turned to the Mesmer, and spat, "Balthazar be damned if I allow those soldiers to remain slaves to the Charr!"

Sermo made a hasty decision: he could choose to defy the Prince, in front of all these other witnesses, thereby loosing their implied good will, as well as whatever share remained earmarked by the Prince. To be this far from safety, and utterly alone, was not a prudent position. But if he submitted, he would risk much for an adequate gain: possible death in exchange of the possibility of the Prince's favor. Sermo sighed. It would have been much cheaper to simply have chosen to side with the King only a day earlier.

"You are just, of course," said Sermo, before taking a step backwards and lowering his head.

Surpised, but pleased, Rurik announced, "Then we go to Drascir!"

* * *

Bontfazz Burntfur paced the length of the same tent he had used two years ago, though its canvas was marked with the lighter shade of newer additions; former warriors and slaves he had killed and tanned were marked only in contrast to the darker leather. The same braziers burnt, filling the air with an acrid scent while casting off a deep red light. There was a new wooden table, salvaged from a royal monument in Drascir and presented to the chief shaman as tribute, and this was draped in different tawny scraps of vellum, marking maps or important messages from different commanders. Lying atop one of these sheets was the remains of a large cut of meat, bleeding through the papers and staining the table.

In fact, the only real change in Burntfur's tent was the location. It was now several score miles south of where it had once been, though he was still – and this was a source of incredible frustration – north of the Wall. The closest any Charr had been to Ascalon City, save for the day of the Searing, when Charr armies massed through the countryside and over the Shiverpeaks, was a few hours ago, when a small warband managed to sneak in and wreak bloody chaos for several hours. Their reign had only ended when, surrounded by soldiers and facing certain death, one enterprising young Charr produced a small child, and threatened to kill it unless they were allowed safe passage out of the city. Burntfur struggled to remember the Charr's name, but soon gave up, realizing it was not important. But he knew that he may have to kill this shrewdling, lest he gain too much power.

The Hierophant turned his attention back to the battle that was still raging, despite the encroaching dusk. He sensed a chance for profit and victory in this day's endeavor, but he lacked the knowledge to grasp it. He could not take Ascalon City, as that was too well defended. The other ruins to the east offered little in terms of strategy, but it would always be a blow to the human morale if the Charr captured, say, Serenity Temple. The same could be applied to the territories in the west, such as the courthouse at Grendich. He was willing to support these attacks, however, but only as a last resort.

He wandered over to the largest map, splayed out across half the table and stained with various crimson juices. The territories held by the Charr were marked in blood, for they saw no sense in wasting time preparing ink when they already held a plentiful supply of another, equally adequate liquid. It was this, and similar instances, that led humans to believe that the Charr were bloodthirsty and delighted solely in slaughter. From the Ascalon perspective, this is true. But from the Charr's perspective, it was the humans who were cruel. The Charr had never heard of hatred until they encountered the humans, nor had they learned of true cruelty. They slaughtered the humans because they were stronger. Just as the wolf devours the lamb, because the wolf can, so do the Charr devour the human. But the Charr do not hate the human; such is anathema. And as for their seemingly barbaric use if human slaves, using them as raw material for everything from buildings to meat: humans use cattle skin to make leather because the cattle is subservient. The Charr hold the same logic, in that humans are simply 'meat'.

A runner had just been in to inform the Hierophant of the latest battle lines. Burntfur marked the relevant information using ash and thin black twigs. Immediately he knew that his forces would never be able to push the Ascalons back – at least, not here. They were too entrenched, and too motivated.

Another runner burst into the tent, disrupting Burntfur's flow.

"What is it," he barked, whirling around, with one paw full of flame.

The messenger held himself steady out of respect for Burntfur's position and his power. "I come to bring the latest news of the western front."

"Why should that concern me now?"

"Commander Bloodfang, before he was killed, noticed that the enemy was diverting troops towards the southwards battle." The messenger held out a large piece of vellum rolled into a cylinder, partially warped by the Charr's tight grip. "All the relevant information has been written down here."

Burntfur let the flame die away before snatching the message away. While he perused its contents, he said, distractedly, "Bloodfang is dead?"

"Yes, your holiness. A small guerrilla group was able to sneak past our lines and assassinate the commander."

"He shall find warmth in the Titan's hearths, and joy in the flames of their battles." He said this half-heartedly, distracted as he was by this new information, as well as a rapidly forming plan. After a few silent minutes, he thrust the parchment down onto the map, and dismissed the messenger. He was now using ash and twig to mark the lines in the west. And he realized, looking down past Grendich, that their lines were beginning to thin dangerously. As the Hierophant saw the word _Rin_ marked down at the bottom left hand corner of the map, he knew what he would do. He hurried outside, and called for his fellow shamans.

* * *

The party, bolstered by the addition of several magi, crept northward. Gwynn had been asked by Rurik to save her outrage for a safer location, while everyone else kept silent out of fearful necessity or because they were accustomed to not talking. Those who had been kept captive were especially silent, their quick movements and downward glances betraying their own predilection to servitude, as well as their guilt.

It was only when they came to a cliff overlooking a wide river of tar, with a wooden drawbridge (the remaining bodyguard was agape: wood! What a luxury!) fastened by a single chain to a baroque stone gate on the opposite side that they found the ability to speak.

"Erol," said Prince Rurik, his basso welcomingly filling the silence, "The other prisoners are just north of here, correct?"

Slowly, Erol nodded. While his head moved, his eyes seemed focused on some distant, immovable point.

Sermo tapped on Rurik's shoulder, and made it clear he wished to speak to the prince alone. Grudgingly, Rurik acquiesced.

"My Lord," said Sermo, "have you not realized that there are no Charr here? The strength of their army is now centered in Drascir. We should be seeing dozens. We should be dead by now." He spoke hurriedly, but slowed down the last sentence to accent the point.

Rurik sighed, "I have noticed, but have not put much thought into the matter. We can discuss this when it is safer. Until then, thank Lyssa for her luck." He turned around to face the drawbridge, and walked closer to the edge. He glanced down, and saw that there was what could generously be called a path leading downwards towards the tar river, and continuing beyond it up to the other side.

"Sermo," he called, loud enough for the entire group to hear him, while still remaining safely quiet. Even still, his voice carried and they heard the dying echo return. "Lead the party down that path. If our luck holds out, you'll be able to find a way to open the drawbridge from the other side. I will remain here with the rest of the prisoners."

Sermo was about to voice concern, but thought better of it. In the moment it took for him to ponder his decision, Asperia spoke up, "My Prince, if you were but to remove these restrictions," she held up her hands, and for the first time Rurik noticed the silver and steel bands wrapped around her bare, thin arms, "I could be of some use."

Morton cut in before Rurik could say anything. He walked towards her arms, and pulled the left one downwards for a better look. After a moment or two, he spoke up, "Wards against magic. I did not think the Charr could use Melandrian." He referred to the writings of Melandru, and indeed, the bands did have long spindly characters that criss-crossed each other like the boughs of a tree.

Asperia looked grim – an impressive task for a face so deformed – and said, "They could not, in the beginning."

Sermo caught on immediately: some magi had to have taught the Charr, then. And he realized why Errol and the others were gazing downwards, unwilling to look up: they had escaped death at the hands of the Charr by making a deal with the devils: it was they who had taught the Charr how to transcribe the ward spells into metal. For which they were spared. Sermo could appreciate the self-serving nature of these Mages, recognizing that he would have done the same in their stead. But he inwardly mocked their guilt, asking himself why they should feel guilty for having survived, no matter the cost?

Morton turned the wrist over, examining the flesh in close detail. As he glanced along the edges of the band, he saw the flesh was darker. It took another moment, but he soon recognized that it was scar-tissue. "They fixed this unto you while it was fresh from the forge?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Asperia nodded.

A quick glance revealed that all the Flaming Scepter Mages had these bands on their wrists. But there were those who had crossed their arms, trying to hide the fact that theirs were loose, and could easily be taken off.

"Are you certain you wish this removed now?" Morton asked, "The best we can offer you is something to bite against."

Asperia nodded. Rurik realized what was happening, and began to protest, saying, "Necromancer! Now is not the time!"

"No, my Prince, please. I want this. I want to help," Asperia said.

"It will take but a few moments. We have a capable Monk with us, after all," Morton said, trying to be reassuring while hiding his interest in the band and the method of transcription.

Rurik ran his tongue across his dry lips, thinking. Then, "Very well." He turned to Gwynn, "Are you ready to step in when needed?"

Aegwynn had been distracted, realizing that she would have had that same manacle applied to her if she remained a Charr prisoner. Between thoughts of terrifying pain, and rage towards the Mesmer who had abandoned her, she could only throw out a "Beg pardon, my Prince," as she was forcibly pulled from her brooding. Then, "I am sorry. Yes, yes, I am ready." She stepped to the other side of Asperia, and gave an evil glare to Sermo. Then she regretted her action, and hoped it had not been noticed.

Morton withdrew a long knife from a hidden sheath. He placed its point at the thin middle between flesh and ferrum. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Asperia nodded, closing her eyes, and placing the strip of leather the Necromancer carried to keep parchment rolled up between her teeth.

"I will try to make this quick," he said, and thrust the dagger into the skin.

She bit down deep into the leather, her scream washing against her closed mouth like the tide against the sand. She tried to jerk her hand away, but Morton held it fast.

"Tor!" he called out while sawing the blade counterclockwise around her wrist. "Hold her!" he called, his eyes narrowed and face taught with concentration. At a gesture from Sermo, the Warrior marched over and held her shoulders steady.

Asperia could only try to thrash about, try to resist the pain. Though she had never given birth, her mind, desperate for a distraction, flashed back to the memory of her wet-nurse telling her as a child about the pain. That memory was now tinged with both understanding, and a shade of red as the pain in her left hand permeated it. There was a knife digging through he skin! She tried to block the pain out, tried to accept it, tried to remind herself that she had suffered worse during her two year's internment. But nothing helped. There was nothing she could do, but struggle against struggling against the Necromancer. She had made the choice. Now she must live with it.

After half a minute, unperturbed by his client's agony, Morton finished the cut. His blade came quick and easy, slick with blood and free from the resistance provided by her flesh. Quickly he said, "It's done. Heal her!" while he slid the iron cuff down to the base of her arm.

Aegwynn whispered the words necessary, and then took a step back to see her handiwork. Immediately Asperia was bathed in a blue light, warmed as if she had just lain in early morning sunlight unfiltered by the smog and dust of Ascalon today.

Then the pain stopped, and she curled her left hand in imitation of a cylinder out of a reflex. Morton took this opportunity to slide the manacle off her arm, using the residual blood as a lubricant. He held the artifact up towards eye-level and examined it in the rapidly fading light. Realizing he had not the time, he slipped it into a pouch at his waist.

"Try casting," Morton commanded.

Feeling lighter, and having undergone a crude catharsis, Asperia thought for a moment, back two years to the required words. They came out, but were marred by stuttering and mispronunciation. It took another few moments for them to come out correctly, but her right arm flashed in pain, and the script on the manacle was illuminated by lines of deep red and orange, if only for an instant.

Morton, curious, announced, "It seems we must repeat the operation." He cleaned his knife on his sleeve, "Are you ready?"

Asperia nodded, and tried not to scream.

* * *

Burntfur led his reserves, the Charr usually kept behind for guarding Drascir, and his own Holy Person, through the darkness. In his right paw he grasped a torch of burnished bronze, with the flames escaping from a wire cage stylized in the quadruped manner of a Titan. Half a dozen lesser Shamans walked behind him, carrying their own, smaller though similarly designed, torches. And behind those were a hundred of the Charr's best warriors, each with their fur dyed orange, green, and other shades in recognition of their skill. Press-ganged into their warband were any lone Charr they found. They knew better than to suggest that those they discovered were deserters – such was unthinkable. Rather, they were those who felt most at ease hunting alone. Normally Bonfaaz would have been glad to leave them to their solitary aims, but this evening required something special.

Burntfur halted; the rest of the band soon caught on. The sky was rapidly darkening, its red fading now to a dusty brown, which hampered visibility. He could only see clearly a few dozen feet in front of him, and this was mostly due to the torch's light. But he had spotted red-yellow glints off of a dark mass in the distance. He inched closer to examine it, and recognized tar. He muttered a few syllables, and watched his left paw be engulfed in flames.

He gazed tenderly at the light that appeared, as if it were one of his grandcubs. There was a quick benediction, an act of thanks to the Titans for granting him a spark from their hearths, before he flung it forward. It burnt out before it could reach the tar's surface, but its passing reflection told the Heirophant he was dealing with a large pond, if not a lake, of tar.

He called, "Smokeskin!"

One of the Shamans, his coat marked by a red dye, edged his way closer to the front of the crowd, careful to keep his torch held upwards, away from the shore. "Yes, your holiness?"

"Would you recognize this landmark?"

"Yes. If it is as large as I think it to be, it is a part of what the prey call 'Dragon's Gullet'." He bowed his head, so as not to look his leader in the eyes. His mane rose into the air; individual hairs twisted and turned with the passing breezes in imitation of the flames they danced next to.

"How certain?" His voice was hoarse and tense from trying to hide his excitement at what was coming.

"If I could be allowed a test," here he gestured towards the torch, and then to the lake's surface.

Burntfur's jowls and hackles were raised with righteous fury, and he bared his teeth to the unfortunate shaman. "You would dare defile your Blazon?"

Smokeskin was able to see the miscommunication, however. "Never! Your Holiness, never! I was going to use a simple spell, a benediction."

He was being honest, the Heirophant knew. He chided himself for his error, "My apologies. Errs made in the pursuit of righteousness will be forgiven, however. But I must deny your request: the prey cannot know of our coming."

"As unto your word. But may I point out another landmark, then? To the southwest…"

Burntfur whirled around. Just when he was about to ask for clarification, he noticed a tiny orange spark, held steady in the sky. As time passed, it grew more and more powerful, and he recognized it for the pyre atop the Flame Temple Corridor, preparing for the sunset prayers. He barked a command, and the army followed him. They continued south, skirting the edges of the great tar lake, before making a direct line for the temple: they may have had the gods' favor, but why tempt fate by carrying flame across a flammable lake?

It took the better part of an hour to reach the grand ziggurat that gave this valley the name of 'Flame Temple Corridor'. Once there they were greeted by a host of two hundred Charr warriors. Their commander, a particularly bestial Charr, whose teeth had grown too large for their mouths, and whose bone spurs – normally kept under control via pruning by most Charr – were allowed to grow wildly in different directions, greeted the Heirophant by bowing low.

His voice came out as a distorted growl, "It is an honor, your Holiness." He then stood up as straight as his hunched back would allow, and kept his head low while he asked, "Forgive me if I intrude, but by what providence do you come here?"

"To further the gods' will. It has been revealed unto me that we shall deliver such a blow that the prey might never recover. To this end, I need the entirety of the bands stationed here, save those few Shamans needed to keep the flames alight."

The commander, named Lugg, looked even ghastlier as he grinned with delight. For a moment he forgot himself, and brought his head upwards, but then remembered himself, "Forgive me, I was so…"

Burntfur interrupted him, "There is nothing to forgive," he said, clapping a claw onto his shoulder. "Come, we must offer a sacrifice that the Titans may grant us a worthy victory. Bring me the most pleasing prey you have."

Lugg scurried off to do his master's bidding. Burntfur barked a few more orders to his commanders, demanding maps and whatnot, and while they ran about, the Heirophant made the long, slow journey up the temple's steps, careful not to trip on ash and blood.

When he reached the top, he was pleased to see both that the attending Charr Shamans knelt low in his presence, and that the sacrifice was already awaiting him. Any human would have called her beautiful with her skin pale as alabaster, a thin, pointed, even regal face, and thin eyes that hid eyes as brown as Melandru's from all save her beloved. Even her tattered rages – once a royal purple, not torn and stained to grey – and weeks of malnourishment and mistreatment failed to disguise her loveliness.

She even had spirit, exemplified by her struggling against the Lugg's gnarled and spindly arms. "The sacrifice is prepared," he intoned.

Burntfur slid his blazon into a slot designed for such a purpose, and waited until the pyre was between him and the gathered audience below before announcing, "Then stoke the fires, that the gods might see our devotion. For when we were created, the Titans watched as those beneath us were made with water and earth. Scornful of such weakness, they crafted us from the very flames of their spirits; it is with such that we offer the spark of the lesser,"

The response from below came as the roar of a flame, "That it may feed the undying flames."

Burntfur continued, "The sacrifice is presented," and the woman was thrust into his arms. He grasped her by the chest with only one paw wrapping its way around her torso, "Its body made pure," with several gentle strokes of the his other claws, he tore what little clothing remained to her, letting it be drawn into the grand pyre, now stoked so as to be taller and fiercer than any Charr.

The woman's struggles were halted for a moment by a sense of instinctual shock at her indecency. Then she continued her attempts to escape: she scratched the arm that held her up, kicked what she could, and screamed out of rage at her captors, at the unfairness of it all, even at Grenth, the grand architect of fate. She was angry, but not despairingly so.

"And its soul shall be whisked up as a spark, and consumed," came the congregation.

"Accept this impure sacrifice, made by impure hands, in the eternal hope that all will be cleansed and strengthened in the Titan's forges," Burntfur raised his hand up high, lifting up the woman so that her head could be seen over the very tips of the fire. His elbow bent back as he prepared to cast her in. His last whisper could barely be heard over that of the flames: "May they take even your ashes, so that your weakness be turned into our strength." Then, "Go unto them!" he cried, and cast the woman into the pyre.

She felt free as she floated through the air, her back wailing with flame's heat. She had enough time to whisper "Rurik" before her body was taken.

* * *

Several moments passed after the magic of Gwynn's spell washed through her before Asperia felt calm enough to stand up. The memory of the pain was fresher than some of the scars that marred her face, though it was, out of necessity, beginning to grow even fainter than these physical testaments to her suffering. She steadied her breath, and glanced down at her arms: instead of seeing brutal scars, there was only pink, unmarked flesh. In hasty shock, she swung her arm over to glance at its underside, and was pleased to see in the fading red light the thin hidden rivers of her veins.

Her mind was awhirl with unspoken and unthought possibilities, and now freed from her own guilt via voluntary catharsis. But she was disturbed from this reverie by Morton's chilling voice, "Try casting now."

She looked up at the face of her impromptu surgeon, and seemed to realize how ugly it was: bald, pale, with the skin stretched tightly over a skull. She found a new wellspring of disdain tapped within her, though its gifts seemed more like an aged wine she had not tried since two years ago. Realizing she needed time to think things through, she shook herself from these thoughts, and said, "Of course."

This time the words came faster, more clearly, and with an unbidden haughtiness. Her right hand was doused in ice after a sentence. Asperia looked upwards, at the single chain that held the drawbridge up, and aimed. With another few words that came out like the crinkling of shattering ice, she flung the spear and watched with satisfaction as the rusted chain shattered.

Slowly at first, the long wooden board leaned towards them. Then it gained momentum, and smashed into the rock with a massive grunt.

Rurik waited a few moments for the dust to settle, and then said, "Well done, my Lady." He turned to face the other mages, but failed to mark that some refused to meet his glance, "I am certain that some of you wish for the same surgery, but we do not have time. Sunset approaches, and we must be gone." He then turned, and walked across the drawbridge. When he reached the other side, he called, "Come! We must go North!"

* * *

When prayers were completed, Lugg approached Burntfur. "Your Holiness," he said, "We are ready."

"Then let us go." The Heirophant made his way to the front of the army, turned to face the rest, and bellowed, "Let us go south! Rin awaits!" to the Charr's flame-like roar.

* * *

_Son of a bitch that took a while. And I'm not even finished the Ruins of Surmia mission! Though I was hoping to get that out of the way, but it looks like it will take another chapter._

_You may notice the dialogue is getting a wee bit fancier. I always enjoy reading texts from the rennaissance because of how eloquent the speakers are, and you'll see some of that loquaciousness in the Legacy of Kain series. I'm trying to imitate that style, where Satan arises and announces, "Awake! Arise! Or be fallen forever!" or Kain defiantly announces "Cast him in." I'm not succeeding terribly well, but you'll find little bits and pieces (I'm particularly proud of Morton's _"They fixed this unto you while it was fresh from the forge?"), _but with time I hope to have my characters speaking in that manner. At least the upper-class, educated ones. Those of a lower birth will communicate a little less formally. Thoughts?_

_No comments; no responses. Save for this: I am constantly trying to tie in instances in our real world with their parallels in Tyria. I don't particularly know why quite yet, but perhaps it has to do with exploring these different instances and ideas. I'll leave it up to you, however, to discern what these parallels are. Today's chapter heading should be something of a clue._

* * *


	12. The Horn of Ascalon

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities._

**The Horn of Ascalon**

"Where are all the Charr?" asked Sermo. Through the growing brown haze which now marked dusk, he could see only a few of the beasts, two dozen at most, guarding tents, fires, even a miniature temple with a wrought-iron model of a Titan affixed to its pyre. They lazed about, demonstrating a half-hearted effort at patrolling, snapping at each other, and making little effort to hide their surliness over being left behind by the Hierophant.

"Do you question our good fortune?" Rurik responded while casting his gaze about the plateau.

"I do, my Lord. Too few beasts have been left to safeguard their seat of power. Where are the rest of them? What task could have drawn almost every Charr, even their shamans, away?" Sermo's brow was furrowed. He stared intently at the few Charr he could now see, as if more might suddenly appear out of the gloom and answer his question.

"Whatever it is, it cannot concern us right now. Look, we can creep past them by keeping to the eastern edge of their camp. All the guards are entrenched in the center. If we are quiet, we should move unseen."

"Are you certain the prisoners are held in the rear?" Sermo asked his question without breaking his forward gaze. It annoyed him to have to pester, and even rely upon, the Prince so.

"Erol is." Rurik brought himself to his feet, but stooped low.

"I don't know how much trust to place in a damaged mage." Sermo got up to follow the Prince's lead.

"I trust him enough, Lord Malum." His voice was iron enough to halt the Mesmer's questioning.

The two returned to the rest of the party, who were hidden beneath the plateau's ridge, away from enemy eyes. Rurik quickly explained the plan, while Sermo wriggled his way towards Morton. He tapped the Necromancer on the shoulder; Morton flinched, and whirled about-face.

While Rurik spoke, the Mesmer whispered, "If all seems hopeless, I want you to teleport yourself, Tor, and myself back to the farthest eastern outpost you have mapped."

"That would be Grendich Courthouse. But why?" Morton understood the need to flee from battle, but not the necessary location.

Sermo grasped the question that lay behind the obvious. "We will have abandoned the Prince to his death. Though Adelbern would benefit from his son's misfortune, he would have no inhibitions about executing us for treason. If the worst is to occur, I would escape into the Shiverpeaks."

Morton nodded and was secretly relieved. Throughout this quest northwards, he had been ill at-ease. When he was addressed, he was jittery. When he had to cast a spell, he was unfocused, and stuttered. There was no safety here: the bare skeletons and the roars of the Charr carried to his ears by the dull, dry air were constant reminders of his mortality, and how fragile it could be.

Sermo understood the party's silence as passive acceptance of Rurick's plan. He made sure to position himself in the middle of the group where he was most protected. Remembering last night, his glance was cast ahead towards Gwynn, who had gone to the front so as to be far from Asperia. Would she trip up again, he wondered.

Gwynn was tense, but remembered last night's mishap as well. She kept a close watch on her path, and on the bronze back of Rurik's armor, careful not to take a misstep. Red earth; small pebble; a loose rock slipped beneath her right foot, but she was dainty enough to avoid tripping over it.

Much to everyone's relief, the entire group made it beyond the glow of the Charr fire without incident. There were no trip-ups, no curses when the bodyguard fell to the earth, and no clanking of armor to reveal their position. Though it was a strenuous, tense ten minutes spent attempting an incognito infiltration, Rurik heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the tents' size slowly dwindle to small, obviously abandoned prisms, and then to nothing.

But Sermo frowned. "Where is the slave tent?" he demanded.

"Erol," whispered Rurik as loud as he dared.

The mage shambled over from the rear of the group, his eyes downcast eyes hidden amidst the thick strands of his unruly beard. "My Lord?" he asked, monotone. After hearing Rurik's query, he quickly added, "They were normally kept to the north of here, in the Drascir Academy's ruins." He could only be dragged from his inner underworld to give the most basic answer. After every one or two sentences, he would sink back beneath the mire, and show himself to be lost in whatever pertinacious thought was demanding his attention.

"How far north?" asked Rurik.

There was a long moment of silence. Just before Rurik was about to ask again, the Flaming Scepter leader spoke up without letting his eyes leave the ground, "Only a few hundred yards." In the dark, it was impossible to see even a few meters in any direction.

Rurik nodded, seemingly satisfied with this answer. He gestured for the party to continue marching, and positioned himself at the head of the group.

Sermo shook his head, and ran to catch up to the Prince. "My lord, this is insane!" he whispered, "You are putting your trust in a deranged invalid who keeps leading us further, and further from safety!"

"Lord Malum, I have heard you question my wisdom long enough. Unless you have something to say on rescuing these Ascalon slaves, keep silent!" When he saw Sermo's mouth draw for a response, he added, "That is a royal edict! Return to your place." He turned his head forward, and added some zest to his marching to outstrip the Mesmer, indicating that he considered the matter closed.

Churning with a cold rage more at being dismissed so callously than at the patent stupidity his Prince was displaying, Sermo spat onto the earth. The warm, desperate earth swallowed this offering, and he withdrew to the middle of the line.

Ten minutes passed before they reached the ruins of the Drascir Academy. To the credit of its architects, many of the spires, each decorated to the glory of the five gods, still stood, though the main building was gutted, its floor lined with the remains of a crumbled ceiling. Here and there the glow of a crystal could be seen, illuminating the desecration of the images on each tower: apparently unable to bring the entire structure down, the rampaging Charr had been content to demoralize their enemies by attacking whatever idols of the gods they could find.

Surprisingly, the gates were left open, and the courtyard untouched, save for the thick layer of dust and ash found everywhere in Ascalon. But in the darkness of night – for now it could be safely said the sun had set, and the land left to decay – little else could be made out. Rurik unsheathed his flaming sword, while Sermo's cane lit the scene.

The party stood at the gates, unwilling to cross the threshold quite yet. "Where are the prisoners," Rurik asked Erol.

The answer this time came disconcertingly quick, "Inside, my Lord. Just inside the main hall."

Rurik nodded, and stepped across the threshold; Erol spoke a single word to the darkness.

Immediately everything lit up. The obelisks, with their swirling runes, glowed a bright white, and sent beams of light straight up into the sky. Long rows of uninterrupted scripts of dedication to both reason and revelation glowed with their own rainbow choices all along the inner and outer walls of the courtyard. Even select parts of the ground glowed, though muffled beneath the weight of dust, indicating the paths that those who were interested in keeping off the grass could take. It was all very impressive, and years before the Searing was a point of pride to those magi that taught at the Academy. But for those seeking secrecy, it was a terrible undoing.

Rurik turned to Erol, his face doused in speechless shock. Before he could say anything, Tor sent one iron gauntleted hand into the mage's face. Errol fell to the earth.

"There never were any prisoners, were there, mage?" Sermo's face was tense and cold in all its fury. He spoke as if he knew the answers to the questions he asked.

Erol had once again fallen into his own inner underworld. When Tor drew a baselard he kept hidden beneath his armor, and removed two fingers from the mage's left hand, Errol suddenly snapped to attention, screaming.

Rurik tried to push the Warrior aside, "What are you doing? You'll summon the Charr!"

"Unless they're blind, they're already en route." Rurik turned to the Prince, and addressed him as an equal. Had the situation not been dire, Rurik would have taken offense. But now he was willing to let protocol slide. "Allow me to do what I will." Sermo turned back towards the Flaming Scepter Leader, "There never were any prisoners, were there? Answer the question, lest you loose more than a few digits."

Shivering and holding his bleeding hand tightly in the other, Errol slowly nodded.

"You merely led us here to die."

Another nod.

"Because so long as you remained far from Ascalon, your guilt in the matter of these manacles," here Sermo grabbed Errol's right hand, and held it up for all to see. Through the gloom, they could make out the iron and silver bands that covered his wrist, "would never be known." As if to accent his point, the manacle slid a third of the way down Errol's arm.

Silence. Tor spun the dagger in his hands out of boredom, choosing not to pay attention to the confrontation. Errol read this the wrong way, and gave a single, slow, painful nod.

Sermo dropped the hand, and stood to face Rurik. "It would be more prudent to trust those closer to your station, and not whatever maniacs you feel pity for."

Rurik, to his credit, did not grow angry at Sermo, but with himself. He recognized the truth in the Mesmer's words, and faulted himself for being foolish. But then he opened his mouth to speak, "During the Searing, almost everyone at Drascir Academy was able to flee the oncoming Charr massacre thanks to a gate installed in the main hall. It was linked to the one in Nolani. We can use it to escape."

Sermo paused, and then nodded, "A worthy plan, my Prince." He placed special emphasis on the last two words, and gave a small bow.

* * *

Those apostates, those atheists, those very few doubters in the authority of the Shamans, and their Titan gods could be easily quelled and silenced upon seeing the Charr use their magic in battle. Whereas the humans kept their casters to the rear of their lines, lest their unarmored, frail forms be broken too quickly, few self-respecting Charr would hang behind, save the Hunters and Stalkers.

Burntfur charged forward with his fellow warriors, a benediction of the Titans on his jowls. His torch was clasped in his right paw, its crimson light cast onto the glinting shields and platemail of his fellow Charr. They took the patrol completely by surprise.

Upon seeing the creatures, two soldiers fled; whether they were under orders to do so, or merely cowards, Burntfur did not know. But one was brought down by Charr bows: first an arrow to the back of the knee, piercing through the chink designed to allow the knee to bend, and then another arrow to the back of the throat. The Shaman was impressed by so clean a shot, with only torchlight as a guide.

But then he turned his mind to others matters. A human scout leapt in front of the Hierophant, and raised his rusty short sword over his head for a sweep. He was too slow; Burntfur thrust his left paw forward, and clasped the soldier's head. With a word he enveloped his hand in flame, melting skin and charring bone. Another fluid motion sent the flame into the chest of another Ascalon, melting breatplate, and fusing it to flesh.

He took two steps forward, and swung his Titan-Torch at another soldier. This one ducked, and tried to rush the Heirophant with his shield held forward. Burntfur braced himself, and swallowed the blow. The sudden, jarring force of the impact brought the soldier to the earth, where his head was crushed in one swift swing. Immediately the Hierophant cast about for new foes.

The patrol was comprised of one score men. But brought down to eighteen so soon gave it all the challenge of a race with a new-born cub. But the Charr suffered their own losses. An Elementalist – the only one in a group of twenty Warriors and Rangers – had managed to incinerate three Charr before he had been cut apart.

Bonfaaz raised his left paw, and called a halt to the march. Their group was not large enough that three dead was an insignificant loss, as he had been forced to relegate most of the troops to the battle that was, hopefully, still raging in the plains just north of Ascalon City as a distraction. But Burntfur was not touched by this; rather, it was the knowledge that these Charr had died honorably. Not in the human sense, but in regards to their being in their proper place: in battle, with the blood of their prey on their blades. There was the propriety that Burntfur was trying to restore: the battle-keeness of the Charr, and their status as the fiercest predator.

They stalled for half an hour, while the pyres were lit. The Ascalons were given ample time, then, to set up a sufficient defense around Rin. It was a foolish, sentimental gesture, but Burntfur would have it done, the Inferno take the rest.

* * *

"You're sure it's beyond this gate?" asked Sermo, in a tone that thumbed its nose at protocol and formality.

"Yes. I was here many times in my youth." The memory of his reason welled up within Rurik, and the bitterness that accompanied his unfulfilled promise to rescue her. He recognized, now, why he had been so willing to believe the madman Erol.

As before, the two were off ahead of the party, planning. They stood before a massive wooden door, with ornate and eldritch carvings of the gods and tales of the Bloodstones inlaid in gold and silver – still visible despite the years of dust and neglect. This room, like most others in the academy, had been magically lit upon their arrival with torches that blazed in all manner of hues.

Tor stood watch at the front of the room, leaning on a wall, while watching the main courtyard, which opened up majestically before him. He was expectant, but not eager, nor terrified, for the upcoming battle which could only end poorly. He was beset by the one-dimensionality that was typical of his persona.

Morton, meanwhile, skulked in the center of one of a troika of pillars, one of the many placed in this room. He sat down on the raised dais, twitching nervously, toying with the thought of map-traveling immediately, while he was in no danger. He examined the idea, looking at it from different angles as if it were a sculpture: the consequences, the excuses, possible contingencies… So engrossed was he in himself, and the shadow of fear that underlay everything he did, that he was spooked when he felt something brush his shoulder.

"Sorry," said Asperia, upon seeing the Necromancer leap to his feet, and whirl about. "I was examining this design. The pillars don't meet the ceiling, and I was curious."

The Necromancer looked up at her with a gaze of utter contempt, and stalked away, into a darkened corner.

She watched him go, and then muttered to herself, in the haphazard motly of tongues that was the speech of the elementalists, "Such a fool." She took joy in her ability to speak it again, without the sharp pain that would begin in her wrists, and spread to the rest of her body. She said that last word again, "Fool," and was terrified when, in response to her speaking, the tops of the stone pillar exploded into orbs of lightning.

In the Elementalist tongue, fool is also the word for lightning, referring to both the haste of its magic, and its casters.

* * *

Lightning burst from the hands of an Ascalon soldier, an Elementalist who had wisely disdained the use of iron in his choice of garb. The opposing Charr had not been so fortunate. The Elementalist then swung about-face, to shock another Charr Warrior. The creature winced, and instinctively tried to shield his eyes from the sudden glaring light that now rippled towards him. Before he knew what it was, it had killed him; his parting gift to the world was the awkward scent of ozone that was beginning to stifle the other combatants.

While the battle north of Ascalon City was wall-to-wall combat, with little breathing room between foes, this smaller battle was more of a patchwork quilt of combatants: there might be a score of warriors matching blow for cacaphonic blow in a show of swordsmanship, while only a few feet to the north a single caster would be slaughtering foes by the dozen.

This accidental refusal to conform to traditional combat was the result of the overwhelming darkness that pervaded each Ascalon night. Scouts were placed nowadays as a mere formality; the moon's light could not hope to penetrate the impermeable shield of dust caused by the Searing, and Orr's sudden immolation. There were children growing up now who had no idea what the moon should look like (the comparison to a platinum coin was of little use. Most had never seen one in their lives, and the few that had imagined that the man in the moon was merely Adelbern's profile).

Tangents aside, the two forces were fighting in sheer darkness, the type that the humans were terrified of in their younger years. Like stars – thought it had been a long time since anyone had seen those, either – being born and going nova in an instant, there were flashes of light, arcing forward, combusting, and then fading away, leaving the ever-present night superficially untouched. It would have been impossible to tell who was truly winning this battle.

But the Charr had the advantage: they could smell their enemy. Warriors shed their armor, which clanked and clinked with every footfall, and tracked their prey, as they had done when they were cubs hunting lizards in the dark, with their snouts only. The defenders of Rin had stood facing the north with burning brands and arrows, ready to both illuminate and eliminate their enemies at once. They were not expecting to be attacked by a small group of assassins from behind, only to lose both their focus and the advantage they had gained.

But now they were left to simply fight for their lives. The Elementalist stuttered his incantations, his voice matching the crackling of the lightning that enveloped his fists. He swung about as if drunk, trying to find another target. From beyond the dim glow of his element erupted a massive, bulky Charr. In two leaps he was close enough to the human to see the color of his eyes. He raised one claw, nails extended, and swung with a roar.

The human, responding to instinct, raised his hands over his head to protect it, forgetting that they were enveloped in lightning. The blow connected, the arms torn to ribbons, but the coat on the right paw was singed and, appropriately enough, charred. The Elementalist was sent sprawling onto the earth; the wind was dragged from his lungs by a large boulder jutting out of the ground. Another had carved a long jagged mark on his cheek. There was no pain in his arms, but when he tried to move them, he felt nothing. He used his legs to roll himself over, off the obtrusion and lay still as he tried to summon his breath back. He hoped that the Charr thought him dead.

Then he realized that he could see a vague outline of the immediate area, as if a candle or torch had been light. He was about to wonder when he saw the Charr lean over him, his right paw doused in flame much the way he himself wielded lightning. The Charr raised its paw for a _coup de grâce_; the Elementalist found the breath to summon a simple spell, the most basic that every Elementalist, even those who could not bear the title Aeromancer, knew.

He leaked a single syllable, and it was magnified into a brief blow of wind. The gale knocked the Charr off his feet, onto the uneven earth, where he felt a painful intrusion poking into his back. He lay there for two seconds, and swept back upright, enraged that it had fallen for such a cheap trick. In that brief period of relief, the Elementalist had apparently struggled to his feet and fled.

Bontfaaz Burntfur took a deep whiff, but failed to pick up any scent. Too much ozone. He snarled his failure, and murmured a brief request for forgiveness, before spotting the next flare of light, and following it.

* * *

"They're coming," called Tor, who stood, sword drawn, at the front of the hall. He had just seen the first few Charr saunter into the courtyard, squinting and blinking fast, unused to the incredible contrast of light-against-darkness in Ascalon.

"We are prepared!" shouted Rurik. He looked at the few remaining mages who had submitted to the emancipating process performed so delicately by Morton, so they could power the Obelisks that lined the walls. Through their beards, scars, and missing eyes, they nodded back resolutely. They had found their freedom, and would not waste the treachery they had performed to survive.

"Throw out the bait," called Sermo, waiting by the gate at the end of the hall, with Rurik. He was particularly pleased with this, and surprised that the Prince had decided to play along.

Tor nodded, and grabbed Erol by the neck. The archtraitor was making a half-hearted attempt to escape, not really caring overmuch if he lived or died. With one swing of his arm, the Warrior cast the Mage out into the open courtyard, drawing the Charr's attention. His part done, Tor backed away behind the safety of the Obelisks.

"Sire, you should probably focus on opening the gate," reminded Sermo. Confident as he was, he had no intention of abandoning the main plan in favor of a contingency.

"Of course," said Rurik, disappointed that he would be unable to participate in the coming battle. He turned back to the door, and pondered, lighting his fingers across different runes and symbols, and grunting when they glowed a bright red for failure.

The first Charr warriors entered the hall; almost immediately they were incinerated, their armor blackened and twisted as it oxidized. After the first four deaths, they were more cautious, staying beyond what they hoped were the Obelisk's line of fire. Then the archers came, and sent arrows whizzing past. Most of the arrows slammed harmlessly into solid stone and merely bounced off. Others impacted hands, legs, and in two cases, throats.

Two Flaming Scepter Mages slumped forward, and slid off their Obelisks' pedestals. Immediately the glaring orb of light adorning each pillar faded out.

Sermo watched his all, and fumed at himself for being so stupid: of course they would have archers! He and the Prince had forgotten this one simple rule of warfare.

He shouted "Get behind the pillars, behind cover!" He frantically turned towards the Prince, "Are you certain they changed the password?"

"The incantation was originally too well known. Even the simplest Charr could have opened the gate upon reading a student's notebook. They had to have changed it, otherwise we would have had guerilla groups spreading throughout Western Ascalon, or worse."

Under cover now, the warriors advanced forward, snarling with glee. Disappointed in their being left behind, they were now thrilled by the ability to hunt prey. While the Stalkers and Hunters hung back near the entrance to the hall, ready to pick off stragglers and those who would dare to use the Obelisks, the rest – a good fifteen warriors, axe fiends, or what have you – marched.

Sermo knew they had no chance with those odds. He glanced at Morton, and waited until he caught the Necromancer's eye. He thought it was particularly wide, the pupils dilated and the ducts looking as if it were about to unleash a flood of tears. It was an effect of the light, Sermo guessed. He was about to nod, when Rurik spoke up, chanting in a vaguely sing-song manner a well-known battle hymn: "Come to the fore, O sons of Ascalon. We fight once more, the battle lines are drawn."

The Charr were more than half-way down the hall, their individual footfalls, accented with the clanging of steel could be easily heard now.

Still Rurik intoned, "Now join the men who live to guard us all. Go and defend atop the Northern Wall. Fear not the cost, whether in blood or gold."

Rurik's sole, remaining bodyguard, swept forward by fear, tried to bolt past the oncoming Charr. He managed to duck two different blades, and sidestep a third as he sprinted down the length of the hall. But before he had gone more than six paces past the Charr warriors, he fell to the earth, his body adorned with three different arrows in his throat. Still the Charr kept moving,

"Mourn not the lost, though they will not grow old. If here they fall, we know they shall live on," Rurik's voice was reaching a crescendo. Sermo decided to wait for the signal, to see if this would work. His breath was caught in his throat, the Charr seemed to stall in mid-air.

"When e'er you call or cry, For Ascalon! For Ascalon!"

The gates swung open with majestic instancy. Realizing that something unfavorable was happening, the encroaching Charr redoubled their efforts, and were within striking distance of the party when Rurik ordered them all to retreat into the inner sanctum. Morton and Sermo made it in easily, fueled as they were by fear, while Gwynn and Asperia – the former's legs wailing their own agony as once again they were pressed – hurried as well as they could. The other Mages ran, their bodies unused to this sudden pressure. One swung himself up to the dias of his own Obelisk, and managed to kill two Charr before he was in turn perforated.

"Close it!" demanded Sermo.

"There's still one more!" said Rurik.

The Mage in question was hurriedly jogging, only three paces ahead of the closest Charr warrior. His face was a death's mask of concentration, and then anguish when an arrow ripped clean through his calf, causing him to fall to the earth.

"Now close it!" called Sermo.

Rurik took a breath, and held it for a heartbeat too long as he decided: chivalry or necessity? Did he wish to treat the world the way it should work, or would he merely accept the way it worked, and move on? Cursing the Mesmer, he repeated the last line "When e'er you call or cry, For Ascalon! For Ascalon!" but with bitter gall, his face twisted and contorted by the disparity between the honor in the lyric, and his own personal example. This was not soothed by the ragged, muffled cry of the Mage, and was worsened by the quick, sharp silence that soon fell after. Rurik was glad he could not see what had happened through the iron, gold, and oak.

"My Lord?" came a quiet, meek voice. Rurik only then realized that they were standing in a dimly lit room, with the only source of illumination coming from a pedestal off to the side. "What is it?" he asked absent-mindedly, slowly turning around. Then, "By the Five Gods!"

The object of his dumbfoundedness was a small, whitish, almost unnoticeably dull horn mouthpiece, with a silver bell that incorporated a leonine design. But it was still recognizable all the same. Its description never changed throughout all the tales. Even Sermo knew what it was, his mind hearkening back to his wet-nurse telling him about this magnificent horn.

"Stormcaller," Rurik whispered, reverently.

A heavy bang at the door drew their attention away from the relic. "They're trying to break in!" wailed Gwynn, announcing the obvious.

"We will take this to my father, in Rin," said Rurik, obviously unperturbed by this recent interruption.

"The gate will not hold the Charr back for long," said Sermo.

Rurik nodded, and carefully lifted the horn up. Sheathing his sword, he repeated the battle-hymn that would summon the gate, this time hurrying the words in a mocking tone. The song's majesty had been eclipsed by that of a horn, and the Prince was eager to show it to his father.

The room was lit up by a fine lavender glow as the floor's consistency seemed to fade away until it was almost ethereal. Then it launched itself upwards, forming a glowing, if plain, gate. It was as garish as the rest of the facility.

The sounds of stress were growing louder, and it seemed that the opposing Charr might succeed in breaking down the gate. Seeing his comrades' hesitation, Rurik shouted, "Quickly, through the portal!" and led by example.

What surprised the rest of the party was that he disappeared the moment he crossed the threshold, seemingly disintegrated. The rest soon followed suit, and the gate faded away long before the Charr shattered the door, to find a disappointingly emptied, and darkened room.

* * *

_First entry in over a month. The supposed lazy days of summer are, it seems, just that. Oh well. And as another aside: I've finally finished that damn mission. Ruins of Surmia took three chapters. It's inane. Another three or four chapters, and our protagonists will finally leave Old Ascalon behind.  
_

_No comments, no comment responses. 'Till next time._


	13. Be Near Me

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

* * *

It was Sermo's shift to act as watch. He paced the ruined walkway set before the walls of Nolani Academy, his mind clouded and unfocused with a lack of sleep. Had he been better rested, he would not have kept his cane alight lest it draw unwanted eyes hidden in the darkness.

The portal had led to the main atrium of the academy, similar in design to its northeastern counterpart, though its unlit murals and lights were less gauche. It was a pity that neither Rurik nor any of the other magi could remember the key word to ignite the crystals set into the walls for light and warmth. Instead, they were left to camp out in the main courtyard, and use the remains of desks and podiums as the fuel for a small fire.

Once they had a reliable source of heat, Rurik had split the party up into different watches, with Sermo given the predawn shift. Though they were now behind their own lines, they were still cautious, and right to be so: few Ascalons went out into the night, even if it was by their homesteads. The country had simply grown too dangerous.

Sermo's cane made a staccato burst of hard sound whenever it hit the stone of the floor. He was aware that this might wake up his fellow party members, but he could not find it in himself to care. He paced the upper walkway, glancing out over the stone parapet every once in a while. To keep himself awake, he pondered over his situation: specifically, whether or not he could count Prince Rurik as a benefactor after this past night's events. He had shown a callous, cruel, though utterly pragmatic, side of himself. The Prince, ever the idealist – though this was showing signs of changing – may not accept this.

He panned the realm of possibility. At one end of the spectrum lay the notion of swaying the Prince over to his point of view. Rather, as some might call it, corrupting him. But he dismissed that: bend a sapling too far and it broke. And who knows who might suffer in the aftermath of that result. At the other end of the spectrum: change himself? It was laughable. But he could appear to change, and it would be easy to maintain the illusion. But last night's lesson taught him that times of great stress break even the best of illusions.

No. The more Sermo thought about it, the more he realized that there was no way to maintain the Prince's goodwill in his current situation. Before the Searing, it would have been child's play. He cursed under his breath: better to have remained in Adelbern's camp! There he could be both honest and protected.

But the Prince needed him, and his support. For now, he consoled himself with that knowledge.

Lost in such thoughts, the Mesmer nearly unleashed a Chaos Storm when he swung himself about, cane at the ready, after hearing a voice through the darkness, "Lord Malum?"

Asperia stood, one unmanacled hand resting on the thick, heavy stone buttress that doubled as a handrail and a support for the staircase, the other hanging at her side like an icicle. The Mesmer could barely see her in the darkness, yet the glimmer of his cane etched her outline against the stygian background.

Sermo rebuked himself for being so on edge. Then he addressed her in a tired voice, "What is it?"

Asperia gingerly surmounted the final step, and asked, quietly, "Throughout the day we did not have the chance to speak, understandable given the circumstances."

He interrupted, "What is your point, woman?"

She appeared hesitant for a moment, and then continued, "My name is Lady Asperia Crilis, daughter of Lord Crilis. Since my imprisonment, I have not been able to learn any news of him, and I was wondering what you could tell me."

"This could not wait until morning light?"

"I could not sleep. I am unused to being idle during the night." Her voice shimmered, and carried an innocent quality, like moonlight on the hoary northern steppes.

Sermo sighed, and turned around. He began to patrol, and said, "Walk with me while I complete my rounds." He waited until she had caught up with him before continuing, "Your father is dead, your fortune evaporated, and your house broken." There was a moment of uncomfortable, and improper, silence. "Your father, upon learning of your disappearance, spent what little remained after Adelbern passed the Reclamation Laws hiring mercenary bands, and bribing generals to direct their campaigns northward in an attempt to determine what had happened to you.

"Though seen as a maudlin old man by most of the aristocracy, King included, he was allowed his obsession, until it was discovered that he had made deals with the Charr – an exchange, information for information. He was brought up on charges of treason, and executed. Adelbern used the opportunity to dissolve House Crilis as part of his ongoing covert war against the aristocracy."

There was another moment of silence. Asperia spoke up once again, then, and asked in her most timid voice, "How do you know this?"

They rounded the northeastern corner of the Academy's walls. "Because it was the first instance of a Nobleman being tried by special tribunal: no jury, no defense, merely a listing of the charges, and an automatic sentence. It was a memorable case, to be certain." He did not mention how Adelbern was slowly undermining the Carta Ascalonia, and its guarantee of rights for the aristocracy, how tens of Houses, and their associated Guilds, were being dissolved on charges both fraudulent and factual. The most grating fact, for Sermo, was that the funds confiscated were not lining Adelbern's coffer, but used to fund the war effort against the Charr.

The two walked on in silence, along the edge of the eastern wall. They were just past its midpoint when Asperia allowed a quiet sob escape into the ether. Sermo glanced at her, noticed the tears trailing down her cheeks, leading his eyes ever downwards, past the scarred chin – whose deformities were half-hidden in the half-light of his cane – and even further, to the rags which covered her pale skin, her thin neck, and her barely hidden bosom, where the rags were positioned improperly enough so that he could see –

"Stop it," he commanded, and halted his gait.

"Pardon, Lord," she said, wretchedly.

"These crocodile tears, and this attempt at seduction." He glared at her, his lips tight with irritation beneath his goatee, his tired eyes overflowing with scorn.

She glanced at him, righted herself, and realized that this would not succeed. Her voice grew cold, as if it were the north wind, and she spat, "Clever, Malum."

"I will not be used by one such as you, wench." He was exhausted, and now irritated that this woman thought he was malleable enough to be used as a tool, a pawn with which to regain her place in the world, now found nonexistent after two years' exile. He vented, uncaring of his own words. "Were you planning to yield, and then blackmail me? Or protest at the last moment?" He spat.

"It hardly matters now, doesn't it? Apparently I chose the wrong target." She found she was slipping easily back into the politicking and manipulation required of her. Now that she was no longer a noble, it was no longer required, but it takes more than the undoing of a name to unmake carefully formed instincts. "But cool your temper. Now that I know you are a formidable opponent, I would have you as an ally."

"An ally?" Though he was still enraged, his voice never raised above the level used for polite conversation, it would not do for the Prince to awaken and hear this conversation. "What could you possibly offer me in return for my abilities?"

"My Elementalist abilities–"

"–can be replicated by any competent magus." He was growing smug, and had continued walking. Looking back, he felt like he could laugh at the entire situation.

"My wiles, my looks–"

"Can be easily found on the southern end of a horse traveling northwards. Two years in the company of the Charr have not been kind to your graces, no matter what you may think of yourself."

She was stunned, acting as one who, thinking they are incredibly wealthy, visit the bank to find that all their riches have inexplicably disappeared from the vault. She scrambled to come up with a single asset. "My intelligence–"

"–is easily matched, and even surpassed by my own, as was just demonstrated."

By now the repressive darkness marking an Ascalon night had begun to lighten. Onyx was beginning to fade to a drab gray as – beyond the pall of dust and clouds – the sun was beginning to rise. This true light – battered, bruised by its travel through the ever-present despondency, even nearly broken, but still triumphantly crying 'let there be _light!_' – was revealing her less noticeable flaws: the blackened teeth, the dullness of her malnourished hair.

When she had been silent for more than a few seconds, he started up, "You have nothing to offer, then." Smug in his victory, he added before increasing his pace and outstripping her, "Now be gone. Perhaps the Prince would be more susceptible to your Grawl-esque features if you cast Blurry Vision."

Asperia was left to lean against the southeastern cornerstone, and watched the Mesmer trail away from her. She fumed at the arrogant bastard, before she realized that he was right. She had nothing to offer him, nor anyone else. She would be forced to rely on pity, an obviously precious, and yet unwanted commodity at this time and place. How wretched.

She had cared not for her father, seeing in him little to respect or take advantage of. She even cursed his death, and the loss of her fortune that had come with it. She cursed fate for delivering her to the Charr. She cursed the Prince for rescuing her, and returning her to her old life, without the necessary tools to flourish within it. But she cursed herself for being so foolish. As she took herself to task, she rearranged the rags that drapped over her body, undoing what she had done earlier. It was easier, now, in the growing light. She looked up at the sky, and saw its growing cerise. Twenty four hours ago, she reflected, she had seen this same sky on returning to her cage after a night of work. Today, she saw it as a free woman. It was still the same damn sky; it looked no different.

* * *

Sermo allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, before catching himself. He had been cruel without reason, he recognized. He was not concerned with the moral implications, but rather with the knowledge that it was all useless. The appearance of kindness is always important, and should not be abandoned unless necessary, as he had done earlier yesterday, in the Prince's company. He had served to alienate a potential ally with no gain; granted she was an ally without assets, but the fact remained there was no point in gaining her ire. He cursed his foolishness. He had been slipping up more and more recently. If he did not remain on guard, this lackadaisical acting could lead to his death.

In the growing light, he looked to his left, towards the inner sanctum of the academy. Bodies were still strewn about the charred remains of the fire, heavy and unmoving with sleep. He did a quick count, and saw that two were missing. Asperia was an obvious candidate, but what about the other? He rounded another corner, and heard a hushed conversation below him:

"Do not weep, beloved. It was painless." Sermo recognized the voice as belonging to Lady, though it was purer than it had ever been, having a more melodious, wispy quality to it.

"I understand." Rurik's voice cut through the air, suddenly weighed down. Sermo stopped walking to listen. He looked about for the source of the noise, and guessed that it came unseen from beyond the ruins of what was once a dormitory.

"I have but one request: tell my father. Let him know. I only have a few minutes' reward from Lyssa, and I would prefer to spend them with you."

"Tell me, then, beloved, how will I go about in this wasteland without you? The Gods are no source of strength to me anymore. You were my only proof of the goodness of this life. How will I stay true to my soul and people?" The Prince's voice sounded near its breaking point, like a violin string over-tightened, and then plucked.

"You will, my love. The strength to do so is in you. And, though it seems otherwise, the Gods have not abandoned you yet. Their tools may at times be cruel and fickle, but there will always be a better outcome, that I promise you." She spoke with ethereal certainty; her body was stripped from her, with all the uncertainties and doubts that come with its frame.

"I will take whatever consolation is offered, then. You speak it, and I find I can believe once again." There was a long moment of silence. Then, "All I ask is that you be near me. This world now makes it impossible to be just and righteous. If in its stead I can only have love, it will suffice. But be near me." He spoke this last sentence as to himself. Sermo could hear no reply from Althea's shade.

There was another moment of silence, and then the dry, listless sound of receding footsteps crept through the growing light. Sermo ran his tongue across his lips, in thought, and then cried as an arrow erupted through his left shoulderblade.

* * *

_I live once more. The two-and-a-half month hiatus was unfortunate, but ultimately inconsequential. In terms of excuses, I have none, save that the general listlessness of the season, along with its unregimented nature influenced me to the point where I stopped writing in favor of other pastimes. And sorry the chapter's so short._

_The dialogue between Althea's ghost and Rurik is heavily influenced by Andrew O'Hagan's _Be Near Me_, an incredible book. Specifically, when he discusses Connor's death with the lines "And I say: be near me. The world is rowdy and nothing is certain. Do not stray. None of us was meant to face the day and the night alone, though that is what we do and memory now is a place of fading togetherness. Be near me." (Everything in the immediately previous quotations belongs to Andrew O'Hagan, not me). Instead of having Rurik's concern be loneliness, however, it is with being good. I cannot but find that passage I've written hackneyed and mawkish, but it was the best I could do. I am, however, pleased with the quality of the dialogue. But it is no use having a rotten spirit embodied in a sound letter. Any thoughts?_

_I'll be updating a lot faster now. I want to get out of Ascalon before this story turns a year old. _

_Lowcal:  
And this is to let you know I'm still writing this._

_Almostinsane:  
The connotations of the word 'Protagonist' would agree with you. Protagonists are good guys, while Sermo is not a good guy. But he is one of the leading characters in this little drama, though I will admit I've spent far too much time on him at the expense of all the others. _

_'Till next time._

* * *


	14. Round the Colossal Wreck

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

**Chapter 14: 'Round the Colossal Wreck**

Gwynn awoke to the raw, raucous shout of "Charr!" As testament to Ascalon's decline, she awoke immediately, rolled to the left, and swung herself to her feet using her right hand for balance. Her left hand clutched the sapphirine stylized lotus blessed by the very avatars of the goddess. It was a potent symbol of Dwayna given to all healing Monks; Gwynn was ready to invoke its power at a moment's notice.

It took her a heartbeat to realize that the immediate situation was free from danger: she could see no Charr. But then she heard the same voice – she now recognized it as belonging to Rurik – cry "Monk!" with urgency. She scrabbled around the remains of last night's fire, while dodging Tor's arising, towards the cry's source.

Rounding the remains of a dormitory, she saw Rurik crouched over Sermo's prone form. His leather armor was so doused in blood it shone in the morning light, its luster overpowering its black dye, and an arrow's shaft erupting from his back.

"I need you to assist him, while I rally the rest," Rurik commanded. Acting more on instinct than obeisance, she nodded; Rurik rushed off without noticing.

Aegwynn knelt down, her training taking control. The height of the fall meant that it would be best not to move the body until preliminary examinations had been made. She felt gingerly along the spine, waiting to take out the arrow lest he start bleeding profusely. Her hands journeyed up his back, but halted when they reached his neck: there was a break. She took a breath to steady herself: it was possible to use her magic to undo the damage, but the spine would need to be corrected first. And there was where the danger lay.

She glanced quickly for other major injuries, but there appeared to be little little major damage, minor scrapes and bruises excepted. What remained was the arrow. She checked its position to ensure it had not hit anything vital, but knew she was merely stalling. When she could avoid it no longer, she told herself – much like how she berated herself for her routine trysts, or for being so selfish – to finish. But she waited still for another half a minute, knowing what she needed to do, but not acting upon it. Coward, she called herself, though she knew that was not quite true.

Finally, when the sound of wailing beasts and magical lightning reached her ears, her fear galled her into action. She took the Mesmer's head in her hand; with a dull, moist crunch, the spine was popped back into place. Holding it there with one hand, she felt along the back. Warily satisfied, and while still holding his back in place, she used her right hand to pull out the arrow. Luckily, it came with little effort, though the well of blood that followed its egress again reminded her of her duty. Throwing aside the offending object, she snatched up her focus, and whispered a healing prayer.

The distant sounds of an unknown battle dampened, and went unnoticed for a heartbeat. A cool breeze, something unfamiliar to those who lived in Ascalon's husk, but unconsciously begged for, replaced it. And with that breeze, a comforting whisper that stirred memories of the crib, and of times even earlier than that. A faint blue light spread across Sermo's broken body, which faded with the breeze's last breath.

When Gwynn finished the spell, she noticed that the cacophony of a petty, distant fight had dwindled down to the harmonics of a few Obelisks, and the occasional grumpy murmurs of the Charr stifled by death and stone walls. But she chose to wait with her patient, until he awoke. It was the easiest thing to do.

* * *

There were still about two dozen Charr prowling outside the front gate of the academy, though they did so at a safe distance. The smoldering remains of ten compatriots were ample warnings, as was the smell of ozone that hung heavy in the air like a perfume.

Morton examined the state of the cadavers while crouching low: though the Charr were relatively far away, Sermo's injury was a warning to the Ascalons equally potent as that of the Obelisks to the Charr. He judged them all to be in relatively good condition, though were he to animate them now, they would be easily torn apart.

He would have marveled at how level-headed he was feeling now, in contrast to the overwhelming terror he had felt last night, when the threat of death had been so close he could have grasped it by the hand and made introductions. But he had noticed all this before, years ago. It was this that had driven his archaeological expeditions into the catacombs beneath Ascalon. Even further back, it was the reason why a little boy, then tanned a ruddy bronze because of the hours spent at play in the dust roads and fields of Ashford had slept with a candle burning every night. But he did not like to think of such things.

He spoke aloud to Rurik, "What can we do about the Charr?"

Surprised by Morton's voice, Rurik said, "When Sermo awakes, we shall plan."

His face blank with disregard, the Necromancer slid away, towards the stairs, and set about exploring their prison.

* * *

Rin burned. Which was a tribute to the Charr's own pyrotechnics, since most of the wood had long been cannibalized by its desperate inhabitants, leaving dusted stone, warmed by the sun's pale glow.

Both armies were at an awkward impasse, being unused to city fighting. Until now, all battles had been fought on wide, open plains where honesty was unavoidable. Then, just after the middle of the day, the Ascalon command realized it was at a growing disadvantage because it had learned about trickery and guile all too late.

Small bands of Charr snuck through the relative darkness of early morn, worming their way past the enemy lines, and into the houses. After quietly murdering their inhabitants, these guerillas waited until the sounds of battle could be heard close by. They stayed their hands when large groups of soldiers passed by, but slew the small groups of two or three that had been sent piecemeal to reinforce crucial points of the city. Even the runners, dispatched by general to general, were silenced by a quick arrow to the throat. By the time the humans had learned of this stratagem, they had surrender half the city to the enemy, though they cleaved to the other half by using the enemy's own tricks against them.

And so Burntfur had ordered his troops on a house-by-house search for any humans that could be found. By sniffing them out, the Hierophant had found a great many slaves hiding in the basements, or in hidden rooms. And for those buildings that were a hotbed of human activity, he had his own strategy.

He stood before such a situation now. What used to be a tavern had already been half demolished by one of his crystal meteorites a few years ago: this particular specimen glowed and hummed in a manner that was eerily inconsistent with the battle being undergone. It seemed to resonate an ethereal serenity, which made his efforts at warfare seem foolish by comparison. Burntfur shot a glance filled with annoyance at the object: this was not what he thought would happen when he read Lord Odran's incantation all those years ago.

The rest of the tavern still stood, however. Much of the rubble had been tidied up, and a harsh sackcloth tarp, threadbare and wearing its many patches like an old man, decrepit but still proud, might display his own battle-scars, covered much of the ruin. A few half-hearted attempts at repairing the building showed, such as a bricked up corridor on the ground level, but these had never been completed for obvious reasons.

The small Charr warband stood in the shadow of another, smaller building, hugging the walls and hoping that they were hidden from the sight of the archers hidden ahead. Burntfur had tasted these humans' revenge when walking past the building with his bodyguard, a pair of warriors. One more now lay dead in the dust, his blood a sludge running through the street, and an arrow jutting from one eye. The Heirophant himself had taken two hits, and had yet to remove the weapons. Though he had broken one of the shafts buried in his chest to facilitate his casting.

The two other warriors gawked in awkward reverence as their leader closed his eyes and began chanting. It was a long spell, and Burntfur's raucous voice carried well in the strange silence, easily overwhelming the distant screams of combat. A few of the Ascalons hiding inside the house were frightened enough to take the battle outside: a Ranger appeared at the only door into the building, well within range to fire a shaft at the offending caster.

Seeing this, one of the warriors started forward, out of the protective shadow of the building. He took two steps, and was felled by three arrows and a ball of flame that fused steel to skin. The other warrior, seeing the danger, stayed in the shade, but placed himself between the open Ranger, and his lord.

The ranger fired a shot; it ricocheted off of the warrior's shield. Confident in his safety, the Ranger took aim and fired again. This punched through a chink in the Charr's armor, burrowing itself deep into his sword arm. The Charr roared with frustration, his voice echoing down the streets. But he did not move. A third arrow was fired, and this one found home in an exposed leg. A fourth missed entirely.

Burntfur had no idea as to what was going on. His eyes were forced shut for concentration, and his mind refused to register the sounds that reached his ears. He was lost in the red words he spoke, watching them spindle and grow, cascading about in front of his mind's eye. The power of the spell grew and grew until it was a noisome collection of burning power, ripe for release.

The Ranger took aim, confident in his control of the situation, and tired with this game. His opponent was shielding his face while obviously wavering from the blood loss. His once-mighty left arm was shaking with the effort of forcing the weakened arm up. He pulled the bowstring taut, but let the arrow fly wild as a cascade of energy encircled the heirophant, and then shot straight up. Burntfur, exhausted suddenly by this release, fell to his knees, but forced himself to watch the ensuing carnage, so as to admire his handiwork.

The ranger stepped back into the house, thinking to avoid whatever effects of the spell he could. But when he heard a sharp, steadily increasing whistle, followed quickly by the shouts of his fellow warriors who had hidden themselves upstairs, he threw caution to the wind and leaped out through the door.

It was this that postponed his death: there was a deafening crash of stone against weak concrete and wood, and the splintering sound that told of the breaking of bone and men's lives. Dust flooded his vision, and a dull ringing his ears. He felt the earth's groan as another meteorite slammed into the house's ruins, and then another. Surrounding houses were hit, and the rubble ran like a pool into one great pile. The ranger began crawling, to scared of being hit to stand up. Then a beam of wood, thrown loose by the rain of stone, landed hard on his legs. He screamed, and then bit his mouth shut.

He waited for the dust to settle, and the sound of stone rolling against stone to cease. A silence made vast by comparison engulfed the street. He waited another few minutes, and then tried to free his limbs from where they were trapped.

* * *

Rurik paced the breadth of the academy's walls, trying to think of a way to escape past the Charr. A small band of warriors might be able to sneak out, leaving the rest to man the walls and obelisks, keeping up the façade of a besieged party. But – here he noticed he was passing the ruined dormitory, his eyes unconsciously grazing the locale of his final – he could not leave half the party here, not in good conscience. Not when her last words to him were a plea to be… good.

He spun around, keeping his straying gaze wrenched forward. A frontal assault would be suicide: though their archers were kept at bay by the dramatic magics of the obelisks, there was nothing stopping them from laying to waste a small group during the spring from the gate.

Again his mind drifted towards – or rather, around that tremendous, black ocean that had been raised in his mind – the idea of escaping with a small unit. But then he saw the prone body of Sermo, still unconscious despite Aegwynn's ministering. He would not leave: that would be an act worthy of the Mesmer that now lay before him. He would be better than that.

"Report," he said, his voice curt when dealing with social inferiors.

"His vitals are fine, your highness," she said, cowed by the Prince's presence, "and, near as I can tell, there was nothing wrong with the prayer."

Rurik glowered at her, " Near as you can tell?"

She offered up another tidbit as an attempt at distraction, "I believe he's just tired, your highness, and his body is forcing him to take the rest he needs. Even with my aid, an arrow to the chest is a jarring event."

Rurik nodded, and dismissed her. He was more angered by the fact that he needed Sermo to challenge his ideas, and suggest alternative paths. It was unfair, he thought, that such diabolical cunning should be so useful.

Lost as he was, he was shaken when he heard Morton's voice spill out from behind him, "Your highness."

Rurik spun about, his hand on the hilt of his blade. "What is it?" he demanded.

"There is a matter of which I'd like to inform you…"

Despite the Prince's reservations about the Necromancer (not twenty-four hours ago, he had used his own men as blood sacrifices for his dark rituals), his intelligence was not to be doubted. Soon a plan was settled upon, with little interference on the part of Morton. The only detail he was explicit about dealt with his remaining behind to animate the distractions left by the gate. Safe, behind the walls of the academy.

Tor was selected to lead the group, with Rurik, and Gwynn. When the plan was announced before all, Asperia made a fuss about being brought along: one never knows, she argued, when a mage would be necessary. Rurik, loathe to put so many in danger, agreed. With Morton leading them to the back entrance – a tunnel, apparently formed by a student proficient in earth magic. What it was used for was a mystery, "Smuggling local wenches in," was Morton's suggestion.

"How did you learn of this?" asked Rurik.

"In my years spent as a collector of magical artifacts, I had ties with all the major academies. Over a pint, a Nolani envoy shared stories with me. This being one of them." The Necromancer failed to mention how, upon selling a unique chakram to the academy, he had used this tunnel to steal it back.

But Rurik was satisfied with this answer, and followed in silence, glad for the distraction, while Morton led them through the darkened halls, into the kitchens – the stone counters remarkably preserved, save for the inch of dust that sprawled atop every surface – and through a small door that led to a scullery.

Morton pointed at the floor, beneath a wooden trough once used to rinse plates, "There. The big, triangular stone. Pull it away, and you'll see the tunnel."

Without waiting for an order, Tor pushed his way to the front, and threw the trough onto its side. Just as quickly, he leant down and slipped calloused fingers into the crack in the molding, and thrust his legs upwards. With a shallow groan, the flagstone gave way, swinging upwards like a trapdoor. Tor threw it against the wall, smashing the trough, sweating and panting from the effort.

"The Geomancers would have used their magic to move that," said Morton.

Tor failed to grasp the implications. Instead, he turned to face the Prince. The obvious had been dealt with, and, having no idea what to do next, he knew to wait for orders. Rurik simply pointed down into the hole. Tor obeyed, and leapt.

There was a wet crunch as he landed on something hard and brittle, crushing it. He had no idea what he'd landed on, but saw a faint silhouette, lit by the dim light creeping in at the other end of the tunnel. There was something wavering in the air, and as it grew larger the sound of chitin skittering across rock grew louder. His mind was empty, even of a sense of curiosity as to what was coming. Then –

"Devourers!" he called. He ran forward, unconsciously glad for the tunnel's height. Two paces from being able to jab his sword into the insect's thorax, he saw the tail draw back for a strike. There was no time to dodge – nor was there the room, for that matter – so Tor thrust his arm out, gauntlet catching the tail as it came down. His shield was released, and clattered against the wall; he heard another armored being land hard against the stone.

Without thinking he swung his sword, severing the tail from the rest of the beast. The devourer wailed from the pain, but slowly grew silent as Tor stepped forward twice, reversed his grip on the sword while sprinting, and thrust downward. The blade went through the insect's thorax, but bounced against the earth. To remove the blade, Tor stepped back while pulling the blade towards him, drawing an ichorous line through head, and then freeing the weapon.

Tor mechanically wiped down the blade while turning to face the Prince. "The tunnel is safe."

Rurik nodded, "Then let's hurry."

* * *

Morton, glad for his shrewdness, sat against the battlements directly above the academy's gate. Two Magi stood to his left, engrossed in maintaining the obelisks' strength, the orb placed at each crown humming ominously.

"When the Prince gives the signal, warn me," ordered the Necromancer.

One of the Flaming Scepter Mages could do little else but nod, lest his concentration be broken.

A few empty minutes passed as the Necromancer stared blankly forward, unwilling to turn around and take a peek at the distant Charr warband. Despite the obvious distance, and the unlikely nature of his head being spotted whilst peering out from overtop the crenellation, fear still goaded him. Hence he forced himself to take only the odd glance, every ten minutes or so. It was all he could the will and duty he could muster.

His next foray revealed that little had changed. Most of the warband was gathered about a small fire they had lit, despite the day's heat. The same two warriors were engaged in a debate – Morton surmised it was about what to do next. Apparently the morning had made little headway in the dominating of the other's thesis. A quick count revealed that only one Charr was still missing. A runner, perhaps. Or a scout. Morton saw no need to worry.

When he leaned back, he saw a figure walking across the wall, his yellowed rags marking him as another Flaming Scepter Mage. Years of living under the Charr must have inured him to the threat they presented, for his slow gait was neither hurried nor made cautious by the threat that lay only a few hundred paces away.

"Tyrl, I've come to take your place. Get some sleep," said the Mage. A thin, patchy beard less advanced than those of his compatriots told Morton that he was younger than the rest. And the young are less fearful than the aged, the Necromancer reasoned.

The Mage named Tyrl, apparently relieved and visibly exhausted by the strain, arrested the magic coursing through the Obelisk. The orb went dark, the tones reduced to mere monophony. He staggered off, and the younger Elementalist quickly stepped up to take his place. It took a few moments to get the artifact working again: in the meantime, Tyrl had made it to ground level, and the other Mage still operating his obelisk allowed himself a brief moment of sheer envy.

Morton took the chance to peer outwards again. It was as it had been before, the last glance revealed the missing Charr come running into the camp, right arm hanging limp and stained with what could only have been blood. Morton knew this was important, but refused take another gander. There was a moment of terrible indecision, where he recognized his fear, but could not berate himself for it.

"You," Morton said, gesturing towards the younger Mage, "Tell me, what are the Charr doing."

The Elementalist responded in gasps, already strained by maintaining the obelisk's power, "See yourself."

"I need to prepare the spells required. Report, or I'll have you martialed when Rurik returns."

There was a pained second when the Mage considered the chanced of this. Then he grudgingly consented, gasping out, "Charr came, back. Others are arming." He began to sweat from the strain, and then wailed, "Prince!"

Morton hesitated, but reasoned that they were distracted enough now to safely risk a peek. He glanced, and saw that Tor and Rurik were now in combat with the beasts. With no time to loose, he began to chant the spells required. All while keeping as low as possible.

* * *

It only took a few minutes before the Charr had caught on that there must be some hidden reason why some of their fellows' wounds were marked with jagged crystals of ice, and why the wounds they inflicted upon their foes were disappearing beneath a haze of blue light. Otherwise, there could no reasonable explanation for why five Charr warriors and another four archers should have so much difficulty in killing two humans.

And then there were four. Rurik pulled his flaming sword from the cauterized hole in one of the warrior's chests. The weapon had punched through the plain armor with eldritch efficiency. At the same time, he raised his shield, and caught a blow from that forced him to step backwards. This opened up his chest, and allowed an arrow to pierce his lower abdomen. He cried in pain, and took another step back, but was soon rewarded with a warmth that drowned the rising agony in his belly. The arrow was still there, but the wound had closed around it. Certainly, after this battle, some more battle medicine would be required.

Tor instinctively parried blow after blow, playing safe by keeping his shield facing the enemy archers, while constantly moving to remain less of a target. None of this was planed: he merely knew it to be the proper course to take. He ducked a swinging sword, and brought his shoulder forth to ran into the enemy's chest. Another warrior, struck him from behind, and while his armor absorbed much of the weapon's impact, he knew he would bruise.

Two of the enemy archers, relatively safe from Rurik and Tor in their place on the list of priorities, ran around the mêlée, hunting for whatever source of magical interference could be found. Their padded feet made for easy going when climbing up a nearby hill. And, upon surpassing the crest, they found a welcome surprise: two female casters, with fear and surprise in their eyes.

Asperia redirected her spell, and one of the rangers found himself perforated with dozens of small crystal slivers. These quickly melted, leaving only raw flesh and pain. Enraged, the Charr dropped his bow, and swung a clawed fist at Asperia. For a moment, the Hydromancer was prepared to duck the blow, but then she thought otherwise, choosing to finish the spell, and allow the blow to land. She launched another set of crystal daggers, which pierced the Charr's heart. Carried by the momentum of the blow, she hit the earth, her face and vision red with blood.

Rurik was knocked to the dirt by the combined weight of two Charr. One of the beasts lay atop him, pinning both arms with his weight. Rurik saw the mouth open, and felt warm saliva dribble into his beard. Disgusted, he leaned his head back, and swung it forward, allowing his helmet to do most of the damage: his unexpected attack succeeded in breaking the Charr's snout. Hot blood now doused the Prince's face, and he used this moment of distraction to release his sword and free his right hand from beneath the beast's bulk. A few punches to the face with a gauntleted hand succeeded in driving the foe into unconsciousness, loosening the body.

But the other Charr was still present, and he stabbed his sword downward. Rurik shifted as well as he could, but the blade still connected, piercing through his armor, flesh, and bone, pinning the Prince's arm to the chest of his foe. Rurik screamed bloody murder, waiting for the relief that failed to appear. The Charr pulled his sword back, eliciting further noise from the Prince as his own blood now flowed freely, dying his armor an ugly brown.

"Asperia!" cried Gwynn, as she tripped while scrabbling backwards, "Help!" She screamed as an arrow impaled itself in the ground between her legs. She crawled backwards, ignoring the hearty screams drifting over to her from beyond the hill, desperate only to escape the ranger that had his eyes set on her. The Charr swung another arrow from out of his quiver and pulled the bowstring back in one fluid, practiced motion. He took a heartbeat to aim, and was about to let go when a long spear of ice pierced his neck. The arrow went wide, and the spear shattered as he collapsed.

Asperia still lay on the earth, woozy. But she had enough sense to cry out, "The Prince, Monk! To the Prince!"

Remembering her duty, Gwynn hurried to her feet and ran to the hill's crest. She saw the Prince with a Charr standing over him ready deliver the _coup de grâce_, while Tor was laden with half a dozen arrows embedded into armor, shield, and flesh. She despaired over the Prince's situation, and over who to heal first.

Then she saw the bodies that had reached the Charr rangers, how they tore into flesh and armor with their bare – and, for a few, fleshless – hands. The archers wailed in terror, and out of rage for their deaths at the hands of mere animated cadavers. The warrior about to lay Rurik low hesitated, looking over to see what was causing such a commotion. In that one pause, Asperia stumbled to the hill's crest, and whispered a favored spell. Daggers of ice cut through both air and steel, and embedded themselves with enough force to knock the Charr a few feet back.

Tor also exploited this distraction. He swung high and wide, decapitating a Charr. The act forced an arrow buried in his shoulder to dig deeper, allowing more blood flow. But this did not disturb the zen state battle brought him. When he turned his attention to the other remaining Warrior, he saw that two animated carcasses had, with the three arms between them, torn into their foe with a mechanical zeal.

Gwynn wasted no time, then in healing the gaping and obvious hole in Rurik's arm. The Prince was glad to see the pain disappear. Then he passed out.

He faded slowly into consciousness when the party reached the gates of the Academy. He realized he was in the hands of two of the more preserved bodies, and though the smell of magically galvanized decomposition was pervasive, he was too disconnected to find himself much bothered. The last thing he heard before fading back into the darkness was Sermo's smug voice remarking to some hidden figure, "The Prince appears to have fared well in my absence."

* * *

After freeing his legs, the lone, surviving soldier of Burntfur's meteor storm had crawled through the deserted streets of Rin, playing dead when he could not flee the marauding warbands. After half a day of crawling, he finally reached what he recognized to be familiar territory: the King's palace. Ruined though it was, with crystal meteorites flowering up like canker sores, it was still a majestic sight, still defiant amidst the two years of strife. It cheered the Ranger's heart to be here, alive. It was a sign from the Gods, he was sure.

Then his skull was crushed beneath the armored paw of one of Burntfur's entourage. The Heirophant, still smarting all the petty wounds inflicted upon him by the humans, stared with victorious contempt at the building, crying to the crowd of Charr assembled, "Rin for the Gods!" before muttering a spell under his breath, a dark ground bass to the raucous melody of the other warriors' shouts.

* * *

_Three weeks since my last entry. Not terrible. And here's to my first 50,000 words. I've been saying this for the past few months, but I'm almost out of Ascalon. _

_almostinsane:  
She hasn't really changed throughout the story. As time goes on, you'll see how her 'pleasant demeanor' during her internment with the Charr was merely a continuation of her selfish personality. _

_Later._


	15. The Lone and Level Sands

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

**The Lone and Level Sands**

After Rurik had been tended to, Asperia approached Gwynn. The Elementalist's face was still bleeding, though it had been half an hour since it had been marred by the Charr's hand. Her own efforts had contributed to this, enlargening the cuts with her own talons while keeping the blood flowing at a trickle.

"Aegwynn," she said, "I need your prayers."

Gwynn turned around and did a poor job of hiding her revulsion. Asperia's gargoyle features were even more repulsive thanks to their crimson veneer. The Monk could not help but stare at the red eye that stared back at her through the mish-mash of raw, ragged flesh. Set against the distorted pink of scar tissue and the haggardness of a malnourished face, this distorted visage gave rise to the greatest, most childlike, desire to flee.

But she complied. She whispered a quick spell, and hesitated only a moment to ensure that the effects were taking place. When she saw the faint azure light tinge across Asperia's face, Gwynn looked no further and hurried away.

The Elementalist did not notice: she was far more concerned with her own state. When the pain finally receded, she gingerly passed her left hand across her face. The texture was pure, unsullied. She felt along the opposite side, and was repulsed by the touch of the contours and gullies of scar tissue. Eager as a child on its naming-day, she ran inside one of the few standing buildings, in search of a mirror. Fortunately, the kitchen she had entered only a scant two hours previous held one, mired as it was beneath the weight of dust. She cleaned it off with her rags as best she could, until she could see the faintest reflection of the dim light that suffused the room.

She held it up to her face, and saw, for the first time in two years, her old face unsullied, appearing as pure as the new-fallen snow. It rankled her pride that the other half of her visage should remain so twisted. But that, she now knew, would change.

* * *

Rurik woke slowly, taking his time to shake off the remains of torpor. He knew he when he awoke, but did not open his eyes until this notion had permeated his entire mind, and until all other processes had awoken. He regretted this: his first thought was _she's dead_. His next was a memory of what had just happened, starting with Sermo's snide remark, and going backwards, until he remembered the battle, then that they had been trapped in Nolani Academy.

He opened his eyes: they were free. He began to get up, surprised at how light he felt. Then he saw his armor sitting neatly piled up next to the bed. Then he saw that damned Mesmer.

"I am glad to see you've recovered, your highness." There was no arrogance in Sermo's words, but no sincerity either. They were flat as the sky above them.

"Yes. Now, we must hurry to Rin." Though he felt slightly ill at-ease, he reached for his greaves and began to slip them on.

"Perhaps. A bank of smoke has arisen to the south. I can only surmise that the capital is besieged."

"All the more reason to hurry there. We may be of assistance." Now he reached for his breastplate, and slid it on. But he could not fasten it without assistance, and he would not ask such a thing from Sermo.

"How much use will ten warriors be? And when half of them are unarmored, exhausted prisoners of war?" The Mesmer sat down on the other bed, raising a cloud of dust. "Be rational, your highness. We should wait until we know the situation before proceeding."

Rurik slid his gauntlets on before proceeding. "Whatever our deficiencies, they are much made up for by the Stormcaller." To accent his point, he picked up the mouthpiece from where it had laid and hooked it onto his belt. "And I will not suffer any insubordination," his voice, tired though it was, became threatening, full of righteousness and long-delayed rage, "You and your party will serve Rin in her hour of need, or I will court martial you for treason here and now." He picked up his sword, and immediately it flamed to life. The room was inflicted with its rage-red glow.

Sermo showed no signs of fear. His eyes stared forward, unfocused as he thought. There were a few tense moments, and then Sermo spoke the keyword that would set his own cane alight. The light blazing from Rurik's sword swallowed his cane's soft glow.

The Mesmer stood up slowly, and, controlling himself, said, "Very well, my Prince. I will serve." He stood up, and left Rurik alone. When the cane's light had disappeared from the corridor, Rurik stood up, only to have his breastplate slide off his chest, and land with a heavy clang against the floor.

* * *

They set out southwards, leaving the gates open behind them. Though Rurik hated to provide a possible base of operations to wandering warbands, there was no way to shut them without leaving someone inside. And, if the plume of smoke to the south was any indication, they would need every arm they could muster.

The party walked in silence. Their throats were parched – having drank the last of their canteens before leaving the academy – and their stomachs painfully empty. The sun cast its red eye downwards, blaming all for the marring of Ascalon. It's baleful glow highlighted all the deformities present in the scenery: the rote variations of hills, crags, all of which were the color of ancient cracked vellum, and the shimmering, whining crystal meteorites that were now only so many tombstones. More sinister were the occasional skeletons, slowly being dyed the same sepia as the earth. Most of these were of Gargoyles, reduced to stone when they died, or the more bestial Grawl. Once or twice there would be a Charr skeleton that had missed its pyre.

And, inevitably, there would be the lonely, naked bones belonging to a human. Even Rurik let these pass, not wanting to waste the precious time required for a burial.

In the distance, the specter of the Wall loomed like a bad memory, a constant reminder of the humans' failure to defend their own homeland. Once uniform and constant, it now stood broken. Some sections maintained the façade of remaining well ordered, standing straight and proud, with battlements and embellishments remaining strong and pure despite the dull light they shone in. But these too proved bitter mockeries when compared to the sections that were disjoined and slanted, leaving a mile-long gap in the monumental defenses. And there were parts that had simply fallen away to dust, prophetic of future tidings.

Two factors prevented them from being abandoned altogether. The first was Adelbern's pride: these were monuments – according to his private delusions – of Ascalon's glorious past. They would not be lost; nay, they would be restored when the Charr had been pushed back and exterminated like the beasts they were. The second was more tactical: the ruin of the Wall was haphazard in nature. There were sections with gaps only a few paces apart. But there were unbroken sections, sometimes miles long, which allowed for at least the illusion of defense against the rampaging enemy.

Rin was fortunately just south of one such stretch. Unless a detour of a hundred miles could be accounted for, the only way to the city was through a small, heavily defended gate. Because of this, the Ascalon command had felt secure in placing the majority of their forces to the west, to defend Ascalon City and the lands thereabouts. It would take an overwhelming force, after all, to break through this linchpin.

It was with understandable shock, then, that the party met with when they saw the bodies of the guard, and the gates scorched and thrown from their hinges.

From their vantage point midway up the Wall, the party had an excellent view of the inferno. The sun was already midway between meridian and horizon, and great plumes of smoke had taken root in much of the city. This included, to Rurik's dawning horror, the palace. From this distance, he could see the damage: fire and meteorites (of the plain, stone variety) were destroying what little of the structure still stood.

The others watched with varying degrees of intensity. Tor merely took the sight on. The fact that Rin was burning was noted, but no connections were made. Gwynn, Asperia, and the rest of the magi were looking on in horror: this was their homecoming? Had they escaped such terror, only to arrive home to one far worse? Or had they merely carried this ill fortune back from captivity? Morton stood near the back, and looked down at the faces drawn taught with infernal rapture. He took a wary glance backwards, to check if the coast was clear in case a hasty retreat was necessary. Then he looked at Sermo.

The Mesmer merely had his cane planted in the earth before him, and rested his hands on its pommel. He stared for as long as he felt necessary, and then tapped the Prince on his left shoulder.

"Perhaps it's time to save your capital," he rapped the horn's mouthpiece hooked to the belt with his cane, "Your highness?" His tone was flat, and vaguely expectant.

Shaken from his nightmarish reverie, the Prince stuttered out, "Yes, Malum." Shaking off the shock, he sounded more forceful when he ordered, "Quickly now, to Horn Hill. We must save Rin!"

* * *

Horn Hill had been, before the Searing, something of a monument to Ascalon's glorious past. Here was a relic of an ancient, terrible magic that had shaken the skies and repelled even the most horrific of invaders. No one really knew who had crafted it, though a popular legend spoke of it being Balthazar's war-horn, given as a gift to an old King that had performed some great deed.

The theft of its mouthpiece, however, had taken place only a few days before the actual cataclysm and invasion of the Charr. As with all things that occurred around that time there were rumors concerning its disappearance: spies, some whispered. Or demons. Or the Charr, which seemed to make the most sense, bent on robbing Ascalon of its most powerful defenses when they were most needed.

The truth was far less exotic. two recent graduates from Nolani Academy had performed the deed the night before their graduation. Drunk with cheap rotgut and youthful exuberance, they had snuck up to the hill under the cover of darkness, and snatched the relic on a dare. They had intended to return it a few days after, but real life interfered in the most horrifying way possible. All the participants of the heist had died in the first few days of the invasion.

But now, after a two year absence, Rurik was about to set things right. The hill had been ignored by the enemy army, being on the outskirts of the city and having no real inhabitants. This made the going easy, though the entire party was constantly pressed to hurry by both the Prince's excoriations, as well as the destruction that lay like a puddle before them. They had started at a brisk march, but as the scent of ash and the sound of screams drifted upwards, they had been goaded into a jog, and now they were running steadily, encouraged by Rurik's shouting to move.

But now they were there, standing at the hill's crest, before the time-weathered Stormcaller. It's ivory surface was now tea-colored, its many inscriptions and mosaics dulled and faded. It was a depressing sight, indicative of what Ascalon had undergone while impressing the hopelessness of any possible recovery.

The Prince hesitated with the mouthpiece in his hand. He looked at the sad state this relic had fallen too, how it was the barest skeleton of its former glory. He looked at the city below, and how, even if he repulsed the invaders, it would be nearly uninhabitable. And all the rest of his doubts now welled and oozed to the surface, doubts about his own ability to lead, about whether they could ever win against this war. And even whether it would still be possible to rebuild Ascalon. No rain had fallen in close to a year, he remembered. Were it not for the few wells that remained untainted, and the snows of the Shiverpeaks, the entire population would have died of thirst long ago.

And then there were the people. Ascalon's populace had not suffered kindly. Adelbern was a tyrant now, bent on saving his people often at their expense. The people were little better, he thought, as he remembered Sermo, and Morton's cruel use of his own bodyguard, and the insane Mage Errol, who had chosen the deaths of everyone he had known rather than let the truth about his treachery see light. Was any portion of this withered, dried husk worth the sacrifices he would make? Or even worth this one act, a lungful of air? Or the almost endless succession of moves he would make against fate, ending only in a brutal death at the hands of some enemy, or as an old man in a dying land?

And then he remembered what it was Althea had said this morning.

He brushed off the dust from the slot that would open up into the mouthpiece, and he saw the faintest gleam of the brass beneath all the woe. He slid in the mouthpiece, and pressed his lips to it. He tasted the bitterness of the ash and stale air within the horn, and it made him retch. But he inhaled until his lungs were full to bursting. And then he blew.

He would not save these people because they were worth it. They weren't. He would save them because it was the right thing to do.

* * *

Sermo watched the Prince's hesitation, and then his commitment. There was a disappointing moment of silence, and then the sound of the horn. It was one long low note that spread like a pool of water across the dusty earth. And then it took shape, growing upwards, filling the city with its urgency. The screams and cries that flitted upwards like so many irrelevant flies were hushed as the sound's majesty filled, and then overflowed the minds of all who heard. It was a mad crescendo, stealing initiative and energy from all: Charr and human, locked in mortal combat, paused at its first breath, and then stood slack-jawed, watching the earth, the ruins, the sky, the point of their own sword that gleamed with blood and fire, whatever it was that caught their fancy. Burntfur, far below, at the gates of the palace stopped whispering his spells, and let the empty words be devoured by the horn's blow.

And then it stopped, always earlier than the listeners would have liked. It was followed by a terrible silence that yawned like the abyss, made all the greater by its contrast. Man and Charr glanced at each other like awkward guests at a party, wondering what role they were supposed to play, having forgotten their old one. And then, counterpoint to the first note, the storm responded with a crack of lightning and the shedding of a few tears. And the magic took hold.

Where the Charr had, two years previous, brought their foe low with fire and crystal, the Ascalons now parried with the blunt, prolonged rage of a storm. Rain, for the first time in a year, fell. A few drops at first – stunning both Charr and human alike – then more and more until it was a deluge, sweeping away the grime that the country had accumulated and snuffing the sacred fires that the Charr had brought with them.

Burntfur watched, dismayed, as his holy torch was quenched, the glowing orange wire of the Titans' effigy reduced to a disfigured dark bronze knot. The other shamans watched with sheer terror as their own staffs and focuses went out, and the implications took root: their gods had abandoned them.

But what was demoralizing to their foe heartened the humans. And, as the first crack of lightning sounded through the dead city, they charged forth with renewed vigor. Rurik watched from Horn Hill as thunderbolts slammed into the earth with a fury denied for two years. He withstood the overwhelming roar, a testament to the sound of the horn, and then turned and faced his party.

"Into the city! For Ascalon!"

* * *

Now it was Burntfur's turn to scamper through the streets, terrified. He had narrowly avoided a bolt of lightning that had left another shaman a wet pile of ash, and now hugged the walls and ruins of whatever buildings remained, hoping that they would protect him from this terrible storm. His paws were empty, having discarded the now useless torch at the gates of the palace. His uniform was torn and soaked through, and he shivered through his dampness.

He paused, and tried to taste the air. The rain was a hindrance, washing away all possible scents, and – though it was still evening – the sky darkened by the weight of clouds kept the sun's meager light from Rin. He heard the triumphant shouts of a few soldiers down one of the roads – it was difficult to tell over the angry roar of raindrops against stone where exactly they were. He ducked in a small alcove between houses, hoping that he would not be noticed. When the cries died away after a few minutes, he crept out, and continued running.

He believed this way was north – he needed to escape past the Wall, and return to the safety of the Charr encampment. His thoughts were fragmented as he fled. But for what purpose? He had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and his armies were broken. What was left for this war now? And what of his gods? What of their sudden impotence in the face of these humans?

He shook metaphysics from his head. It was foolish to ponder while fleeing for your life. He would, he told himself as he peered around the body of a crystal meteorite, ponder these questions when he had escaped the city.

* * *

In the grand mêlée that was now Rin, Sermo had many opportunities to 'get lost' in the heat of battle. And the first time such a chance presented itself, he snatched it up, staying behind while Rurik and others pursued a fleeing warband in order to finish dispatching another few dogged Charr. He held Tor back with him, telling the Warrior that they needed to go north, to the gate into Rin. Without a thought, Tor obeyed.

And so they ran north, dispatching any foes they encountered. By now, the Charr had been divided into two camps: those who were so terrified that they sought to escape at any cost – this group was comprised mostly by the Shaman cast, who were terrified by having the crutch that the Titans and their flames represented torn from them – and those who would fight their way through, to do as much damage as possible, out of their own feelings of pride and honor. The first group was easily dealt with when they were encountered – casters by themselves were easy pickings, while the latter had mostly been exterminated by now thanks to the combined efforts of Ascalon's finest, and their own suicidal nobility.

The roads heading north were generally unpopulated. The growing wave of the Ascalon army had not reached this far yet, save for a few guerilla groups, while the Charr were either fled or dead. But still Sermo pushed on, hurrying as fast as he could. He commanded Tor to hurry up, and Tor responded, shouting "Charge!" as a way of encouraging both himself and his master.

The Warrior was soaked now, but he did not care. Sermo, too did not pay it much thought, being focused on the task at hand and the gamble he was taking. There was a growing sense of trepidation, of fear that his plan had fallen apart before it had even started, and that his life was now forfeit to Rurik's absurd sense of dignity… And then he saw it, the lone Charr ahead, the red dye in his coat still visible despite the gray-blue the rain had doused everything with. It was scaling the outside of a home to reach a higher part of the Wall.

"There it is, Tor!" Sermo shouted, pushing his ailing legs. He wondered when was the last time he had run this fast; it was with chagrin that he answered himself with 'yesterday'. How far he had come in a lonely day! If he had been elsewhere he would have laughed with the absurdity of it all!

Instead, he swung his cane, launching a glowing purple ball of fire upwards, and watched as it burned into the ascending Charr's back.

* * *

Burntfur fell, and landed hard on his back. He allowed himself a moment to pause and indulge in the growing pain he felt flowing through his torso, and then he forced himself up, growling. He saw a human Warrior, covered in steel that shone wet with what little light pervaded the city, charge towards him, sword raised high for a swing. Bonfaaz stepped back – though not far enough, as the blade's tip clipped his chest, drawing a thin red line through his pelt. Before he noticed the wound, however, Burntfur charged forward, knocking the Warrior onto his back.

Without thinking, the Charr delivered two swift kicks to Tor's face, claws extended and marring both metal and man. Then, whispering a few words, Burntfur's claw was enveloped in flame: apparently the Titans had not abandoned him yet. He raised it over his head, preparing to deliver the final blow; his body was doused in a swift purple flame that punched through his magic. Burntfur roared in agony, and cast his gaze about for the culprit.

Sermo stood alone in the streets, cane raised. Here was his chance. Here was his guarantee of safety. He swung his cane, sending another ball of flame towards his foe, and took comfort in the ovular burn visible on the Charr's shoulder. He allowed the Charr to come close, whispering an invocation to Lyssa as Burntfur closed the gap between the two. The Charr took a swing at Sermo and the Mesmer made no move to dodge. The blow connected, sending him back a few feet into the muddy streets and leaving a long bloody streak running up his chest. But Bonfaaz bore the brunt of his own blow, as arcane fire coursed across his body, burning flesh and bone.

He despaired through the pain. He could not bear it, to be defeated by the element he worshipped, where his own had failed and fallen. He dropped to his knees. Where was the justice? He had given the Titan's his life in return for their power. He had given them a race of devout worshippers. He had sent hundreds to their deaths in the name of their pantheon. And the victory he had been promised in exchange had seemed so close at hand. Where was the justice?

He was not evil – the Charr did not think in such terms. But they do expect bargains to be fulfilled, a measure for measure. But in the end, what had it all come down to? Amidst all other conflicting feelings welled up, and then overwhelmed, a miasma of grand despair. Unconsciously he looked down to where he kept his torch, but remembered that he had left it behind. He supposed that it wouldn't have mattered any more, he would be judged upon his death by the fiery deities he so revered. But he would rage against the dousing of his light, for whatever it was worth.

Sermo and Bonfaaz got to their feet at about the same time. The latter lumbered over, weakened by the blood loss and the pain that infused each step, each breath. Sermo, unwilling to take another blow, whispered a spell and watched as the Charr crumpled to the earth, consumed by blue flames, drained of all his energy.

* * *

Rurik, some minutes later, had reached the Wall with the rest of his party. A small crowd of soldiers had gathered around the Mesmer, who was holding out the red head of Bonfaaz Burntfur as a trophy. When he saw the Prince, Sermo pushed through the throng of people, and walked towards the Prince. Kneeling, he held his prize above his head with one hand, and, looking down, said, "My prince, I offer this, the head of the Charr high priest, as tribute," with tones that reeked of excessive humility.

Amid the cheers and cries of the crowd, Rurik panicked. He could not allow this to happen, and so he asked, "How are you sure that this is the head of Bonfaaz Burntfur?"

Sermo quickly responded, "The red dye is one sign. His gear was also marked with the Charr scrawlings for Heirophant. And his robes were also the finest I've seen any Charr wear, with gold thread running through." He lifted his head to stare eye to eye with the Prince, "Besides, it would be fitting to any ruler's pride to lead what might have been the mortal blow to the enemy."

Rurik stared right back, swallowing his pride and his losses. The Mesmer's eyes were triumphant with this one move. For who could execute a hero? He was interrupted by the lone call of a bugle over the steady drumming of the rain, and the distant rolls of thunder. "The King!" The whisper went through the ranks of the assembled soldiers.

Rounding a corner, Adelbern could be seen with his honor guard. His beard was wet and drooping, and his sword, held openly and blazing in his right hand, steamed the air around it. Immediately everyone assembled joined Sermo in lowering themselves, one knee pressed against the gloriously soaked earth.

"Rise, my son," said the aged monarch when he was close enough. "You have saved the city, and all of Ascalon, if what I hear is true."

Before Rurik rose, Sermo whispered so softly that only the Prince could hear, "Remember, the advantage is yours." Initially scornful, Rurik realized the value of the advice as he stood up. For the first time he noticed that he was a few inches taller than his father.

"My King, your praise means much to me. But I merely provided the catalyst for this victory. Your soldiers have done the rest."

Adelbern smiled, for the first time in a long time, a real, fatherly smile. "Nonsense. With your abilities, and with the Horn Stormcaller, we can take the fight to the Charr. We can rout the beasts, and take back our lands!" He raised his sword high, and amidst the cheers of the soldiers surrounding them, only Rurik noticed that its tip was wavering.

Here he paused, and wondered. This was but a reprieve; the Charr would return, and this magic would fade away. There was little left in this land, he recalled, as his crisis atop the hill came back to him. And his father was old, though weathered like the roots of an ancient tree. He turned to Sermo, and asked, "Tell me of the Charr armies that you saw: how many of the beasts did you see?" His question was masked from most by the cries of the soldiers and Adelbern's demagoguery.

Sermo took a deep breath, pondering what he should answer. He wished, again and ever again, that he had more time to think, that things were more stable. But here was a possibility, leaping into the air from the depthless ocean in which it dwelt, and he only had a moment to spear it. "Thousands," he said. "More Charr that I saw today, here, in Rin. And more than all the beasts both here and on the eastern front put together." He had cast his lie, then. It would be seen whether it was useful.

Rurik nodded, and turned to face the King. Now, more than ever, he felt the weight of his throne, of his power. But more terrible, more damning than the role he had been born into was the promise he had made to his beloved. When the roars had died down, he spoke before his father could say anything else. "No, my King. There are more Charr waiting in the North, ready to sweep downwards. And we no longer have the strength to fight them – what would have happened here today if Stormcaller had not sounded?" Adelbern's face was drawn into a cold fury, but the Prince continued, "No, my King. We have but one option:" He turned to face the soldiers so that all could hear, "We must leave these lands, for Kryta."

Adelbern spat, his voice strained with rage, "How dare you contradict your King! Your father! You-"

"I dare, because it is the right thing to do. How many of you are thirsty, each day? How many are hungry? How many of you tire of the constant taste of dust in your throat, on your tongue, every morning?" He turned to face his father, "I will not waste my people in this desert merely for antique notions of pride."

"This is the land of your forefathers!"

"And they are dead! Let this land stay with the dead, then. I will lead you to life."

Adelbern dropped his sword, where is sizzled in the mud, and tried to swing a gauntleted fist at his son. Rurik, dropping his shield, caught it in his own fist. He held it a moment, so that all there could see this, and then released it.

"So be it, then." Adelbern stooped low to pick up his weapon, painfully aware of his own humiliation, and announced to the stunned silence, "So be it then. You are banished. I have no son, and you, and every coward who wishes to follow you, must leave."

* * *

_I've got six more days to meet my goal of finishing Ascalon before the one year mark. Almost there, I suppose._

_I cannot help but feel that this chapter is rushed, especially near the end. The dialogue is awkward - less eloquent, more like I simple wrote this with a thesaurus on the side - but I saw no easy way around practicing it. Eventually it will get better, and less antique. But I'm glad that all the battles in the foreseeable future have been dealt with. They were getting monotonous, which I'm sure shows up in this final, anticlimax._

_No Comments, no responses. 'Till next time._


	16. Stretch Far Away

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

**Stretch Far Away**

In the end it was disheartening for Adelbern to see how many Ascalons readily took up Rurik's offer of exile. When the Prince sent soldiers to proclaim the news, people everywhere, from Ascalon City, to the remains of Rin and Piken Square, clamored to be a part of this grand exodus. The King, grudgingly, unwilling to alienate the few who decided to remain, retired to the ruins of his palace until his son's allotted week's grace ended.

Rurik failed to notice his father's absence, for he was always occupied with some matter concerning the coming trip. A day after his return to Ascalon City, he ordered Lord Sermo Malum to attend to the Krytan Ambassador, Zain. It had taken a moment for the Mesmer to remember whom it was that Rurik referred to. But the catalyst for the events of the last few days was made clear, as ever, in retrospect. Sermo supposed he should be thankful for the Krytan's presence, and what he had inadvertently caused.

Before he left for the outskirts of the city, however, Sermo entered its only tavern. He told Tor to wait by the door for him, and then swung the folds of the sackcloth tarp open. He squinted through the dim light, but managed to see Aegwynn's frail form hunched up on a flat boulder that served as a seat, with a waterskin full of ale.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering how he should approach the situation. But then she looked up, and saw him. He approached her slowly, and asked, "May I sit down?" He gestured towards the ample space on the boulder immediately next to her.

Wearily surprised, she nodded, and slid over to give him as much room as possible.

He sat down, and planted his cane in the dirt between his legs. He slowly twirled its head in a circle with one hand as he spoke, "I have been told you're choosing to remain here."

She nodded, still unsure why he was here. Instead of asking, she took another swig from her skin. She had yet, Sermo noticed, to repair her habits where they had been torn in the many battles and escapades throughout the days previous. From what Tor had told her, she had barely left this tavern, save only with a few young men.

He looked at her, judged her appearance, and after a few minutes he continued, "As a reward for my services, Rurik has given me the right to assemble my own party – not as a personal bodyguard, but as a military unit, to help protect the refugees when we pass over the Shiverpeaks." He waited a moment to make sure she had heard what he said. Then, "I want to offer you a position on that roster."

She looked up, her eyes filmed with contempt. "I refuse."

"Why?"

She turned back to take a swig, and responded without looked at him. "I don't trust you. You left me behind only four nights ago. I could have died, been killed by the Charr." She spoke placidly, as if she didn't really care what her answer was.

Sermo nodded, and then said, "That's a valid reason for not joining my troupe. But why then would you choose to remain in this wasteland?"

Now she spoke as one who didn't believe in their own response, "Because I can help people here. There are enough Monks traveling with you, but the people who stay behind will have no one anymore." She took a sip. "Rurik's being selfish by leaving everyone, even his own father, behind. I won't be like that."

"Your clothes need seeing to, first of all," lectured Sermo, "and you need proper food and drink. Though you're not as deformed as Asperia, another year spent in this hell will drain you of your fairness." He tried to sound kind, but was out of practice, "Be rational. You cannot help everyone, but you can help yourself. And I can aid you in that regard."

Another sip, and then the terse tones of cold fury, "How dare you patronize me. After leaving me to die, you try to buy me off? By making me think that you care for me?" She spoke without looking at him. She doubted she could be this strong if she saw his eyes, and so directed her excoriations at a small pebble by her foot.

Sermo nodded, and then stood up. "The offer stands, and will remain open to you until we leave. Good day." He walked away, through the gloom and the thin patches of light that shone through the marred tarp. When he got outside, he turned to Tor, and said, "Wait half an hour. Then go in and bed her. Tomorrow, ask her to come with you over the Shiverpeaks. Do you understand?" When he saw Tor nod, he handed him a small pouch of gold coins. "Here's everything you should require." As he walked away, he called back, "Don't fail me."

Tor nodded, and then stood still, waiting.

* * *

The meeting with Ambassador Zain should have been a simple matter. Sermo approached the White Mantle camp, carrying a small parcel in the crook of his arm. He wished he had someone to act as a servant, but Tor and Gwynn were occupied, he would not bother with Asperia, and Morton was nowhere to be found. And so he approached the camp, and was escorted to the Ambassador's tent. He was surprised to find everything so undisturbed.

"With all the recent events, I don't think even the King has had time to think about us," responded the Ambassador when Sermo mentioned it.

The Mesmer shook his hand, "And may you stay out of his mind altogether. That is as safe as you could be these days."

Zain laughed quietly, "Indeed, my Lord. Now, what duty can this humble servant perform for you?"

Sermo waited until a seat had been brought in for him before responding, "Rurik wishes to sue for refuge in Kryta. But, in his kindness," he tried to sound polite and kind, but he was so out of practice it came off as cruelly ironic. He chided himself. "But in his kindness," better, "he wishes to bring with him as many Ascalons as wish to follow him."

"How noble of your Prince," said the Ambassador. Sermo tried to discern the haughtiness of sarcasm, but only saw the innocence of chance.

"But it will be a large undertaking. Our first estimates indicate that as many as twenty thousand citizens wish to flee this wasteland for your republic, and that number can only grow."

"You, then, require my help in this matter?"

"The Prince wishes for whatever assistance you could possibly lend us, in the sprit of friendship. In fact," here he signaled to one of the many lay-servants that stood at entrance to the tent, "he offers this token of our gratitude."

One of the servants brought in the box Sermo had carried. "What is this gift?" asked Zain as he slid open the plain wooden cover.

"Sweetmeats, some books – including the latest edition of Simon's History of Ascalon. The Prince recognizes the need for more pleasant distractions in the face of such a wasteland."

"Nonsense. My meditations are all the comfort I need," said the Ambassador as he peered inside. "Oh my," Sermo furrowed his brows, "I believe there has been some mistake. Perhaps you were given the wrong gift?"

If Sermo had not been a nobleman, relatively adept at a lifetime of politicking, he would have gaped at Zain's refusal of almost two platinum's worth of crowns and other coins. "What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that we have no need of such a generous donation. I am sure the Prince merely made some error in his haste, giving us the money meant for some other, more needy charity."

Now he had no idea what to do: it was bad form to refuse a bribe! "Would some other gift be more appropriate?" What game were these Krytans playing, he asked himself.

"No, my friend. Our helping your people in their hour of need is reward enough. Here, if you would spare me a few minutes, I will have a letter of introduction to all the major powers in the Mantle drawn up. This should help Prince Rurik in his quest."

It took a few moments for Sermo to realize that the Ambassador was waiting for his permission to leave. He gave it, and watched as Zain exited the tent, only to return a few minutes later with three rolls of vellum.

"Here, my Lord, take these as gifts to the Prince. These should help expedite whatever procedures may arise in my homeland."

Sermo stood suddenly, and accepted the rolls, "The Prince would also like to offer you safe transit back to Kryta. He feels that friendship such as yours is a rare gem, and should be treasured."

"Give the Prince my most gracious thanks, but I must refuse. My duty is here, to your people. I cannot leave now."

Why these foolish ideas of honor, or their empty vows, Sermo wondered. "But Adelbern may seek to vent his anger his son kindled in whatever direction seems appropriate. And there is the constant threat of the Charr. You are in danger here."

Zain offered his hand, "I have taken a vow, and unless called back by my masters I cannot return." When Sermo shook it, he whispered confidingly, "Besides, let Adelbern do what he will. It is an honor to die a martyr."

He was a well-meaning idiot, but an idiot nevertheless, Sermo decided. "Well, may L… – may the Unseen Ones watch over you."

"And to you. Safe journeys!" called Zain to the perplexed Mesmer's retreating back.

* * *

Morton walked past the shades of shattered homes in what had once been Ashford. The quaint streams that had once run through this place had long since dried, the fields blown away, and the houses burned by the distant Charr or crushed beneath the weight of their incandescent artillery. Here, his memory groped, was where the field belonging to Old Mac had been, where he grew the indigo plants that allowed the fabrication of blue dyes. Farther off he could see the off-kilter spire of what was now Sardelac Sanitarium.

This was an unwelcome task, he reflected. It was getting dangerously close to sundown, and he did not for the life of him wish to be caught out here at night. He may have to take refuge in the sanitarium. But then he remembered himself, and blamed the growing edginess for this lapse.

He continued to walk over the long dead bones of his old home. To distract him from the permanent unease this task left him with, he began checking over his armor: its dark leather exterior was cut and torn in places – more from simple wear and tear than from actually being attacked – revealing the thin mail beneath; there were a fear scores on his shoulders which had cut deep enough to reveal the bare, tattooed skin: dark lines snaking across bleached skin, ultimately forming the glyph for soul reaping –

Morton heard something roll loose in the shadows of an old shed. He immediately tensed up, frantically searching the direction he thought the sound had come from. He stood, waiting, while the shadows lengthened, until he was sure that it had been nothing. And then he waited even longer.

He remained until his fear of being caught out at night overpowered his fear of being ambushed, and he began to hurry towards the distant wreckage to the south. It took him a few minutes at a hurried pace, but eventually he passed through the half-erased outline of the front door.

It was strange how protected this place had remained over the years. Though the ground had choked and died, and then been buried in growing mounts of dust – how long until Ascalon became a desert, mirroring the one to the south? – The building had remained well preserved. Here was the workshop, where cattle skins had been scraped, cleaned, and tanned for vellum. He stepped carefully, almost reverentially, over a small mound of blackened bricks: here had been the oven, and, he supposed, the kitchen by extension. It was a rare, halfway wealthy, family that could afford an oven inside the home.

Here it was. A few boulders had slid across the earth somehow. Though perhaps he had stacked them up to hide the slot; he couldn't remember. It took him a few slow minutes to lever the larger ones out of the way and then displace the smaller ones. After that it was quick work: the dust came up easily enough in clumps. He didn't even need to use the trowel he had brought with him. When the top of the metal box gleamed at him through dusk's light, he slowed down. He took his time prying clear the safe from the earth, dusting it off, and whispering the key word.

There was a flash of green light, and the lid slid off easily enough. He rifled through the papers there, ensuring that all the notes he had made were in order. The small artifacts – a bone fragment from a reanimated skeleton that had, despite its age, not succumbed to the accelerated decay other animated cadavers were subject to, a skull focus, and a book of devotionals written to Grenth, which were supposed to double as necromantic notes provided one had the proper cipher. And, at the very bottom, a brass candlestick, blackened on one side, and still clinging to traces of wax. This last object he barely touched, only to ensure that it was still there.

He closed the box and stood up. Before he left, he wondered if there was anything half-devotional to be done. This was the last time he would see this building, after all. And he had it to blame for setting him on this course. He absentmindedly swung his left foot, and knocked over a brick. Half of it disintegrated into dust and ash.

No, this place was dead. Too far gone to be raised. Not even Grenth would remember it now. He pulled out his map with his left hand, and flicked it open. He stared at the now-empty hole, next to the smothered stone boundary that marked where a wall had stood. No, he thought, as he chanted the last syllable, and faded away, a shadow into the darkness, there was nothing left to say here. He would not apologize.

* * *

"So why do you work for him?" asked Gwynn.

Tor shrugged. He responded without thinking, "The money's good. And there's no real reason to work for someone else."

She took a swig from her waterskin, and passed it over to the Warrior. She was already feeling light-headed, but wanted to keep drinking. "But aren't you worried he'll betray you?" She passed the ale to Tor, and watched as the barkeep lit up the firepit set in the centre of the room. If there was one thing Ascalon had in abundance, she recognized, it was that there was no shortage of flammable materials. That was all her homeland consisted of: dead trees and tar.

"No, not really." Then, because he felt he should, "No." He passed the ale back.

"Why?" Her voice was flat and tired, like the ocean on a calm day, "I mean, he left me to die. Why wouldn't he do the same to you?"

Tor couldn't think of a reason. And he was starting to feel uneasy, because this conversation was taking a turn down a route he couldn't see. The path was doused in fog, the way unclear. Knowing he had to say something, he stammered out, "Because he won't." He sounded as certain as the grave – though with all these Necromancers around, who could be sure?

She looked at him, and then gave him the waterskin. He drained a good deal of it and left it almost empty. "Perhaps you've got greater faith than me in people," she said, chastising herself.

He shrugged, drinking rather than thinking.

With Tor sitting next to her, and her thoughts muddled by the ale, she began to question her promise to remain in Ascalon. The only constants in her life these past two years – Sermo, Tor, Morton, and their little party – were disappearing. She was choosing to remain behind because she knew she was right to. But she couldn't help staring down at the great void that was her loneliness. Its constancy, how it remained when everything else had faded away, terrified her.

She had asked around about that boy she had met here a few days earlier, only to learn that he had gone missing during the battle north of Fort Ranik. She realized that she did not know his name, had never asked for it.

What did she have left? Her duty, her oaths: these were supposed to be pillars of light, blazing throughout the dark times Ascalon had fallen to. They were supposed to help her even in the dull day-to-day living during her pre-Searing life. But, when confronted by that inevitable abyss, they faded away to mere memories, only to rekindle in the form of justifications for her self-loathing.

In the meantime, Tor had gone and refilled the skin with a more potent form of liquor. Engrossed as she was in sharing her thoughts, she barely noticed the difference in taste. She also missed his complete failure to grasp what is was she was telling him: that she, perhaps most of all people, was alone. He too was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol coursing through his system. But, more importantly, it was as if she spoke a different language: his mind had no real conception of the metaphysical. If it could not be touched, caressed, tasted, and destroyed, he had no understanding of it.

"This is it," she tried to say, "We keep talking, but we keep missing… Nothing ever comes out straight." We grope in the darkness, and sometimes there is a glancing, the briefest of touches. And because we desperately need that sensation, we keep groping and frantically exploring the void. But it never ends up amounting to anything. That is what she wanted to say. And it is why she walked back to the sackcloth tent she had made in the northernmost quarter of Ascalon City, right up against the buttresses of the Wall with the Warrior.

And that is why, when he asked, she decided to come with him over the Shiverpeaks. We are not meant to be alone, she told herself.

* * *

Why did the Ambassador's response still bother him, asked Sermo to himself, as he walked. The group of refugees he was traveling with had passed what had been Grendich Courthouse over an hour ago. The air had turned decidedly chilly, and though most of the Ascalons had brought extra blankets and rags to shield themselves from the cold, he could see that would ultimately prove to be too inefficient. Rurik was hoping that the friendship of the Deldrimor Dwarves would prove true.

What was it about his constancy, his dedication, which proved so irksome? He glanced back at Aegwynn, who was traveling near the back, trying to help shepherd a few rogue orphans. She had agreed to come along, he knew, because she felt some absurd connection with Tor. It would not last, though: once she realized how empty-headed the Warrior was she would come to regret her decision. But that was not his problem.

More curious was the Necromancer, who had been decidedly silent throughout the trip. He carried a larger rucksack, with some heavy object within. Granted, the Necromancer was normally misanthropic, but he now seemed to carry with him a weight, a heaviness, which was singularly foreign to Sermo's image of him.

And then he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Asperia, traveling in the midst of a group of refugees. He hoped he would not see her again.

But he was distracting himself from the quandary at hand. Was it that his own inconstancy, his own body of lies, was exposed in contrast? Strangely, he felt himself longing for the simplicity of the Ascalon he had just left. There, survival was morality; whatever kept you alive was good and right. But now, as they fled, things had become more complex. A better guarantee of survival demands its own price.

The sound his feet made against the earth had become the dull crunch of compressed snow, rather than the dry whisper of the dust. Without realizing it, he had left Ascalon. Most of the refugees were exulted: they had not seen snow for years – the Searing had dramatically changed Ascalon's climate (was this the last time he would make such a comparison? Would he forget, now, the shower of crystals that had wrought such ruin?). But he shared none of their revelry. He recognized his own failures, now, and how Rurik had abandoned his homeland for the vague, ephemeral hope of a better future.

He did not like this sudden manifestation of a conscience. To what end, he asked himself, was this all coming to?

* * *

_One Year, down. And Ascalon is finished. It's interesting: this is both my favorite chapter, and the one I've written the worst. The Spirit, I suppose, is strong, but the letter less so. _

_almostinsane:  
Eh. When I saw it in the game, I thought it was interesting, but done very poorly. The Guild Wars story was never well done from a character-perspective: they're all good, loveable creatures with zany little quirks. But they go little beyond the two dimensional stand-ins they were meant to be. I'm trying to throw some complexity on the matter, but I see now that I've done as poor a job with Adelbern as they did. _

_With that part of the game done, I'm going to take a month's break from this. It's been eating into my writing time, and there are other things I'd like to get accomplished. So I'll take up the metaphorical pen in a month's time - December should give me the right atmosphere for the cold, morose Shiverpeaks. _

_'Till then.  
_


	17. Measure for Measure

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

**Chapter Seventeen: Measure for Measure  
**

Though she had already spent close to a week in Yak's Bend, Aegwynn was still unused to the simple fact of her breath's visibility: watching it coalesce and fade was unnerving to her. She could remember Wintersdays previous in Old Ascalon, where she and the other Daughters of Dwayna would run around the courtyard of Serenity Temple, building Snowmen and Angels. But the past two winters had been balmy – insulation caused by the cloud of dust that now glowered over her homeland. And so the physical memory of frost had faded. She watched as her breath as it came and went. And the Dwarves considered such cold balmy!

She stood aside from the rest of her party, closer to the counter that doubled as a desk for the Dwarven tailor. Sermo had dragged her and the rest to be fitted with new armor, saying, "You're no use to anyone frozen." And now it was her turn to stand up to be fitted, immediately after Tor.

"Kneel down, girl. I can't reach that high," said the tailor, "And uncross your arms. It's a little hard to measure them if they're all twisted in a knot."

Begrudgingly surrendering what little heat she had hoarded, she complied. To distract herself, she glanced at the rest of her party gathered around the open hearth. Tor was staring off into the distance, a habit she only now noticed as being strangely frequent. She didn't think he was the brooding type, but nor could he be described as being merely stupid. Despite all the time she was spending with him she still felt this terrible distance. To distract herself from her original distraction, she began to pay attention to Sermo's and Asperia's argument.

"While your desire to be a hero is laudable, it's irrelevant. Another party has volunteered to lead the groups through Borlis Pass." Sermo explained.

"And what shall be left for us, then? Nannying the blind and lame? Ensuring that all the dolyaks are well fed? Grooming them perhaps?"

Gwynn could only see the Elementalist's profile; her inability to see Asperia's scars lent an illusion of elegance to her words. Gwynn was seized by the desperate desire for companionship, to vent all her woes in Asperia's direction, and listen to what she had to say in return. But such thoughts disappeared when she remembered, all too vividly, what lay on her face's other half.

But the tailor interrupted her reverie, "Now stand up. I need to see about your waist." Feeling suddenly off-kilter, she complied. He was quick with a length of string, and, after clipping off the excess with a pair of scissors placed within the knotted confines of his beard and pinning the length to the wall, he yelled to no one in particular, "Next!"

"If you want the Prince's attention, earn it through excelling in the missions you are given. Now, go. Get measured." Sermo gave toothless, smug smile, and said, "Go. It's my gift to you."

Asperia returned with a frigid stare, and stormed away, failing to notice the change in temperature between hearth and desk. She passed Gwynn without even a sideways glance of recognition. Instead, she fumed, linking trouble to trouble, perceived injury to actual wrong, until she had crafted a web of misery. And, as she bent down so the tailor could measure the length of her arms, she relished in her creation.

She focused her contempt onto Sermo, who was engaged in telling the rest of the party about tomorrow night's mission: "The Prince has decreed that we depart two nights from now, the evening being the time easiest to slip past Stone Summit defenses. We have been assigned the task of guarding the rear of the caravans, ensuring that no one gets left behind, and protecting against rear assaults. Since we intend to take the Stone Summit by surprise, we will probably feel the brunt of the Dwarves' retaliation, and more parties will be assigned for defense as necessary. Those are the Prince's orders."

Asperia wondered why he was talking so loudly. Standing up, she found it easy to chalk it up to his being a blowhard, unwilling to risk the rewards of being a hero. Such was her contempt for this nobleman that she even thought him a coward. And then the dwarf said, "You're done, now, girl."

The tailor turned towards Sermo, and said, "That's everyone then. Shall we settle accounts?" The Mesmer nodded, and walked towards the counter. "Right, then," muttered the dwarf, "That's five sets of armor… Dolyak lining, I assume?" Sermo nodded, and the tailor turned to his papers. "Two plat even, then. Shall I charge it to the Prince?"

"No," said Sermo, grudgingly, "I will be paying." Part of the arrangement for control of his own, semi-autonomous party, was that he would pay his own way. He pulled out his purse from a hidden pocket, pulled out two heavy, silver-color coins stamped with King Adelbern's seal. He then coolly pulled out another twelve gold coins, heavier than the platinum ones, and tossed them on the counter. "For…" he gingerly hesitated, trying to think of an accepted euphemism for bribery among the Dwarves, "for the service."

"Right, sir. Your gear will be ready this time tomorrow, and in good condition too," said the tailor as he swept the coins into his pocket. "But I must ask you to leave now. Need to get to work right away, and close the shop."

"Of course." Sermo slipped the purse back into its hidden spot, trying to act as if it was still heavy with lucre; truth be told he had less than a hundred gold left to his name after that. All that was left of the House Malum fortune. Save for what had been kept in Kryta.

Turning to his party, he commanded, "We leave two nights hence. For now, you're free to do what you will, so long as we meet here tomorrow, at noon." With that, he strode outside, into the cold, leaving the rest of his party to follow at their leisure.

* * *

Tor walked over to the only tavern in all of Yak's Bend, past the station where the last few caravans were being constructed. He ignored the orders shouted from dwarves to other dwarves and men, and strode right into the _Dolyak and Keg_, snatching a single gold coin's worth of dwarven beer, and collapsed into the nearest chair, letting his armor clank against the wood. He ignored the dull ache in his muscles – tired from near constant shivering – and how uncomfortable relaxing in his full platemail was, all in favor of the brief taste of warmth and joy found within one glass of beer.

And then Aegwynn entered the tavern, and what little thoughtless happiness had been granted to him was snatched away.

The Monk carefully walked across the room, glancing side to side at the few dwarves enjoying a pint, celebrating their temporary prosperity, and at the many Ascalon refugees, spending what little coin they had on stopgap distractions. When she reached the Warrior, she pulled up a chair next to him, and sat down, silent, hoping that he would, for once, start a conversation.

But he said nothing, having nothing to say, and so sipped at his drink.

"We leave two days from now," she said. After a brief pause, she continued, "It's been a nice little vacation?"

Tor took a sip, and then answered, "It's been too cold."

"But our new armor should help us withstand the weather. Real dolyak hide is going into the making. It's the same stuff that the dwarves wear."

Tor grunted, and drained the last of the drink, even savoring the dregs. He stood up to get more. Before he traveled too far, Gwynn called after him, "Could you get me a glass?" He moved on without responding.

And so the Monk was left by herself. Not for the first time she asked herself why Tor barely talked to her, why he was so silent, why all that could be heard was panting and grunts, no words, when they – here she stopped herself, unwilling to broach the topic of her broken vows. She blamed herself for his quietude, because it was the easiest thing to do, because it was habitual to give herself the lion's share of the guilt. And she wondered what topic would spurn him to conversation.

He returned with two iron mugs, and thrust one at her while sitting down.

"So," she began, hesitant, "How did you first enter Lord Malum's service?"

He looked at her, drank deeply from his cup, and began, "I was a mercenary before. One day an argument grew and grew, until it was a full-fledged fight on the streets. I drew my sword, and just began fighting with everyone else. When I was the only one left standing, Malum appeared next to me, and told me that, unless I would serve him as his bodyguard, I would be arrested, and then press-ganged into the army for murder. I said yes."

Gwynn nodded, and continued her interview, "When was this?"

"Four years ago." Another sip.

"So he blackmailed you into entering his service." Gwynn found it easy to just slip into a sense of righteous outrage, leaving behind all other baggage at the door.

Tor was began to respond more hesitantly, slower in speech and response, and drinking more frequently. "Yes… or no. I wasn't afraid of going off to fight in the Guild Wars. Or against the Charr. I would have been fine with that. It just seemed right." He began to stare down at the floor as he fumbled for the meaning behind the words. "It was the right thing, to say yes. I… didn't think to say no. But I just said yes." He looked up at her, confused, and repeated, "But I just said yes."

Mistaking his pauses for sincerity, she tried to keep him engaged, "Then why submit yourself like that?"

There was close to a minute of silence as Tor looked up at her, wetting his lips with his tongue, opening his mouth as if he was about to speak, and then falling back into silence. He had no idea what he was supposed to say, but there was some kernel of truth that he knew he was supposed to explain. But where he felt it was supposed to be, there was nothing. "Because… Because…" He glanced down and took a drink. "Because… He said so?"

Before she could say anything, Tor drained the rest of his beer and staggered over to order another. Gwynn watched as he drained it at the counter, slammed it down hard enough to dent the iron base, and stormed out the door, away from her. Unsure of what to do, she sat there, in a confused silence, and slowly finished her drink.

* * *

Tor had fled, driven by the same instinct that warned him against fighting in unwinnable battles. There was a sense of impossibility around the question 'why', a wall which he had no hope of surmounting. There was simply the veracity of this terror, of the impossibility of his answering that question. He had no idea how this had come about, or why he had never noticed this block, or this absence of reason, before. But its existence was evident now, merciless and taunting.

Now, in the back of his mind, the seed had been planted. A laughing ghost lay there, nagging him onwards, asking on the night of a starless new moon, when the sky is as dark as it will ever be, or when he lay feigning sleep with Gwynn's arms desperately corralling him, that damned question: why?

* * *

Sermo nodded at the guards standing before the entrance to Rurik's caravan, and said, "The Prince would see me now." When he saw one nod his crimson helmet, he pulled open the heavy wooden door, and stepped inside.

He was relieved to find an open fire lit in a carefully positioned brazier: fire hazard or not, being cold was dreadfully monotonous, and anything to raise even his frigid spirits was welcome. "Your highness," intoned the Mesmer.

Rurik was hunched over a map, with a dwarf by his side. Rurik dismissively waved his hand, gesturing for silence, and continued to speak to the dwarf, "The Stone Summit have a fortress along this route, then. How easy would it be for us to go through Iron Horse Mine?"

"It'd be harder, 'specially with all the bairns. All the hills, and easy avalanches'll make it difficult to pass through, what with this many caravans and dolyaks. But, once you get through that, Anvil Rock isn't really touched. They see it as too dangerous. So, if you want to get by without being attacked much, it's your best bet."

"It's safer, but marginally so."

"Right."

The Prince stared in silence for a moment or two, before turning back to the dwarf, "The people of Ascalon thank you for both your generous hospitality, and for your sage advice. Would it be possible to call you call upon you later this evening for another consultation?"

"Certainly," responded the dwarf, apathetically.

"Then again I thank you for your time. But now other matters beg my attention. Here," the Prince pulled out a small leather pouch bulging with coins, "for your time and troubles."

"My thanks." After pocketing the lucre, he ambled outside, ignoring Sermo, and slamming the door behind him.

After waiting a heartbeat, Sermo spoke, "I let the tailor know of our plans."

Rurik lay back in the one comfort he allowed himself: a wooden couch, heavily padded with down pillows. "You were subtle about it, I hope."

"If there is anything you can trust me with, it is subterfuge." Sermo walked forward, bouncing his cane against the wooden floor, and sat down on one of the other, less opulent seats.

"Your talents mean that I would, ordinarily, never trust you."

"But these are not ordinary circumstances." Sermo grinned, "Besides, you acted well in front of that particular quisling."

"Ordinarily I would have lanced the spy. But, yes, these are not ordinary times."

"The same could be said about the past two years." There was an awkward lull in the conversation, as neither had any real interest in chatting with the other. But Sermo continued, "Regardless, we leave tomorrow night?"

"Yes. Your party will be guarding the rear, while mine will spearhead the attack on the fortress. With luck, those two's reports will have made it back to Dagnar Stoneplate, and the brunt of their forces will be busy trapping the mines." Rurik paused to massage his temples.

Sermo stood up, and examined the map. "Then by dawn of the second day, we will be safe in Grooble's Gulch?"

"If all goes to plan."

Sermo grunted in acknowledgement. "Only men you can trust – or are forced to trust – know of this?"

The Prince looked up at the Mesmer, and asked, "Why do you question your prince? Have you lost your faith in my judgement?" He began to grow animated, finding a possible vent for all the stress and doubt that had been festering over the past few days.

Knowing that he had the advantage, that in a hostile environment, the Prince could not rid himself of the resource he presented, Sermo decided to push the bounds of formality. "What I question, Rurik," he paused for effect, "is your constant exhaustion, and how this affects your judgment. Your not-so-royal blood still causes you to be taxed like any man. And this, too, affects how you act." Sermo looked at the outraged prince right in the eyes, "I am merely double-checking your tallies for you, ensuring that all the numbers add up. Because if they don't, you _have_ merely led us to die. And I do not find that avenue particularly appealing."

Rurik lay back down, and told Sermo to leave him.

"I will return in a day's time to receive what I hope are the specifics of tomorrow night's plan." He walked to the door, enduring his cane made a heavy thump against the floor, and said, "good day," before stepping back outside, into the cold.

* * *

Asperia spent the day at the outskirts of town, ostensibly to continue to practice her hydromancy. Several saplings, waiting the eventual summer thaw for the chance to grow were reduced to frost-covered kindling, while more than one rabbit found itself pinned to a tree by a shaft of ice. The eventual wolf that caught the scent of fresh kills soon met with an equally frigid fate.

But the real reason for her misanthropy, and her brutality, lay in the fact that she merely did not want to return to camp, to the company of others. Not while, as she was reminded every time she glanced in a puddle frozen to a mirror's likeness, she remained so deformed. And so she spent the day as cold as the magic she wielded.

It was only well after sunset that she deigned to return to the wagon circle. She was careful to avoid directly looking at the sentries, venturing close enough only for them to see that she was human, and hardly an apparent threat. When she reached her party's caravan, with the top floor heavy-laden with sleeping refugees, she glanced around to ensure that everyone was asleep. She saw Sermo, off in a corner, tense in his slumber. Tor and Gwynn were sharing the same blanket, though his back was towards her, which did not prevent her from latching onto him. Only Morton was still awake, but facing the other way, out towards the entrance to Yak's Bend, silent as the stars.

Glad for avoiding them all, she crept into her mat, and slipped into sleep.

* * *

The night passed quietly enough. Upon entering the shop to collect their new armor, they were coldly met by two exiting patrons, dwarves both, who, when they were out of earshot, muttered ominous-sounding phrases in their language. Sermo ordered Tor to inspect each piece of clothing for quality, and was surprised when he learned that they were all well-made. He returned later in the day to make a small order for another pair of gloves, saying that he was satisfied with the quality of the ones he had received, and found that a second pair is useful in all sorts of ways. He had no intention of picking them up, but it was merely another way to continue the ruse.

As soon as night encroached upon the camp, the refugees were rounded up with impressive efficiency, and Yak's Bend was soon emptied, much to the surprise and chagrin of the dwarven traders.

Things appeared to be going swimmingly, Sermo reflected. And then the storm swung into the sky.

* * *

_Yes, yes. It's been three months instead of one. Oh well. Next chapter you'll finally meet the last protagonist, the Ranger. Cheers.  
_


	18. The Charm's Complete

_Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities. _

**Chapter Eighteen: The Charm's Complete  
**

The third blue bonfire could barely be seen through the storm's pall, but it was bright enough to be noticed against the darkness and the snow. Looking down at the compass for exact directions, Asperia hollared down to the caravan's driver below her, "East-North-East!"

A moment later the runner – a boy no older than ten, face flushed crimson with the past hour of activity – tapped her on the shoulder, "Miss, what're the d'recshuns?" She repeated them, and returned to scrutinizing the distance for that thin candle of blue. She had lost it for a moment, and then caught its glare. Meanwhile, Sermo stood at the back, shouting spells to the wind, only to be rewarded when the faint outlines of centaurs burst into sudden purple pyres.

Rurik had passed down word that they were not to turn back, lest they loose the surprise they had carefully grown. All had seen the merit of this decision, but the storm's lengthy counterargument was winning over many. A bolt of frost narrowly missed Sermo's head, instead impaling itself on the woodwork. The Mesmer responded by casting backfire, and was rewarded with another burst of purple, and the faintest echo of a cry over the wind's shrill weeping.

Tor leaned back in his seat, effectively useless because he was forbidden from leaving the caravan lest he be lost in the storm. He did not mind this, though, and was content to sweep newly seeded doubts beneath the carpet and sleep. He was disturbed when Gwynn nearly tripped over him in running to Sermo.

"Are you injured?" she shouted.

He turned to face her, showing a long cut along his temple, from a poorly-aimed arrow. He didn't have time to show her the wounds caused by the few that had been embedded in his arm. "How are the refugees?" he asked, carefully annunciating every word while she whispered her prayers.

After the blue light had faded away, she yelled, "Fine! Morton's doing well!"

Sermo nodded, and gestured for her to return upstairs to look after the other Ascalons, and then turned to keep careful eye for other centaurs. Gwynn ran back up the small, thin staircase, careful to avoid the sleeping Warrior, and nearly slipped on the ice that had gathered on the top step.

By now the signal-light was well within sight, and the attacks from marauding centaurs were decreasing. Only fools would attack during a storm, Sermo reasoned. As they pulled past the baroque, tarnished-bronze claw that held the blue flame, Sermo began to reconsider his opinion when an arrow embedded itself in the ceiling, joining several others, and a _human_ voice could be heard shouting, "Attack!"

"Bandits!" someone cried. Sermo ran over and kicked Tor's leg, "Wake up! Raiders!" The Mesmer was knocked to the floor by a marauding tackle, while the Warrior rose up and pulled his sword free. Tor kicked the bandit in the face, breaking his nose, and then delivered a finishing blow to the neck in the span of a few heartbeats.

Sermo, displeased by the sudden splattering of blood and gore, threw the corpse from off top of himself, and quickly stood up. Snow was sticking to the blood on his face and chest, and its quick melting caused it to run down his face and stain his armor. He had no time to wonder about the presence of human bandits, no time to dispense orders to the runner who had fled upwards; he could only whisper a few words and listen to the cries of fear and pain as one of the enemy was taunted by whatever spirit the hex had chosen.

"He… mine!" he faintly heard, "…Fed… Taught, kept… Mine!" from the bandit before a final scream. And then nothing.

Not knowing what else to do, the caravan driver kept the dolyaks moving towards the next beacon, close enough so that even he could see it. An arrow through his neck caused him to drop the reigns a few steps from the pyre's base, and the animals stopped walking, strangely silent and calm despite the dulled shouts coming from the caravan.

Enough time had passed to allow all the bandits to slip aboard the caravan. One had died already, though the others were in no way dispirited by this turn of events: two decided to climb up to the second level, taking advantage of Sermo and Tor's preoccupation in order to take hostages.

The first was met with a swarm of crackling bats, and a shaft of ice embedded itself in his chest, halting his screams. The second man ran right into the corpse of his compatriot, and, not expecting him to stop, was knocked off the ladder by the body's weight.

Tor was finally occupied. He was not enjoying himself – if he was ever asked whether he enjoyed battle, he would return with a puzzled look – but rather found himself feeling his most able when in the thick of a bloody brawl, similar to how one might prefer clean air to smog. He swung his shield into the face of a bandit, drawing a cry from the man and causing him to fall backwards. The other used this break to thrust his blade into a chink in the Warrior's armor. The tip tasted blood, and the fur lining quickly began to be soaked a dark red. Tor stepped backwards, causing the blade to withdraw, and roared as he riposted.

Sermo, though, was enjoying his own private battle. It was obvious that these bandits were unprepared for the challenge his party was displaying. He spat a quick word, and enjoyed the look on his opponent's face as his movements left distorted echoes in the air: the bandit might swing for what he thought was an arm, and merely cut the air while the real arm was busy swinging a cane. The bandit would reach out his free hand to block the swing, only to see that the attack had not yet been made. Despite the cold, he was beginning to sweat.

Sermo was surprised, then, when an arrow cut through the illusionary arm, but soon found himself distracted.

By now the second bandit had managed to roll the cadaver off of himself, and was reconsidering his options. He knew that to climb the ladder was suicide. But he could help his fellows in the first floor fight. When Morton saw him turn his attentions to Tor, he leapt down the open hole, and ordered the flesh of his foe to rise.

It was a nasty surprise, then, when the second bandit felt cold hands grasp his neck from behind, and a piercing pain in his chest where the minion's grip had forced the frigid spear still imbedded in his own corpse into the other's body. He struggled, carefully aiming his small sword while swinging madly, and succeeding in removing an arm. He was then quick to turn and face his pale foe.

Meanwhile Tor parried one blade with his own while blocking another with his shield. He did not like this position, and did not particularly enjoy being so defensive, but he saw no quick way out of it. He had to hope the others would make a mistake. Despite their novice skills, the two bandits knew this and kept up a careful offensive. After a few minutes of repetitive combat, all of a sudden Tor dropped the defensive stance, turned on the heel of his right foot, and rammed his body into one of his foes. His heavy iron armor was a wall against which the lightly-covered bandit could only bounce off, again onto the floor. Quickly pressing the advantage, the Warrior stepped onto his opponent's chest, drove the sword through the torso, into the floor of the caravan, and then reflexively slipped to the left; the remaining bandit's sword bit into the body of the other.

Sermo's opponent, covered in half a dozen small burns, decided upon receiving another to turn and flee. Before the Mesmer could react, his foe had vaulted over the side and was running through the snow. There was a moment when Sermo would have fled the safety of the caravan and followed his prey, arcane words dancing between the air and his lips, when he was perfectly willing to succumb to that child. But he thought better of it, and turned around to survey the battle. He saw that Tor was fighting weaponless against one of the bandits, and leaned forward while casting to even the odds. Half a heartbeat after beginning, an arrow embedded itself against the support he had just been leaning against.

Tor was disappointed then, when, upon dodging a swing of the sword, his foe was doused in a flicker of purple fire. Despite feeling somewhat cheated, he used the moment of surprise and pain to draw his sword from the corpse it pinned to the floor, and without thinking, swung right around and decapitated the bandit.

By now Gwynn had slipped down the ladder to see what was going on. She was greeted with the sight of the remaining bandit dropping beneath the weight of a frozen minion. Morton ordered the remaining corpses to life, and, in a moment of macabre vengeance, ordered them all to drag the remaining bandit out into the snow. It was, he reflected, a rather efficient way to clean up the bodies.

"Tor," cried Sermo, "there's an archer hidden somewhere near. Find him." Without pausing the Warrior obeyed, vaulting over the barrier without a second thought. Sermo glanced back at the arrow, and shouted, "Check behind the brazier!"

Despite the the lack of any attempt to disguise his presence the Warrior still caught the archer unawares. He raised his sword to strike, but was taken aback when the figure dropped the bow, raised its hands, and shouted, in a strangely mellifluous voice, "I surrender! Don't kill me!" Confused, Tor grabbed the figure by its scruff, and with a sense of déjà vu, dragged it back to the caravan.

"Don't bring the body in here," said Morton, but hushed himself when he saw that, hanging from the Warrior's hand was a boy, clad in dirty and ill-fitting rags, of no older than fourteen.

* * *

_Short and dirty, but I've introduced the final member of the party. More on him later._


End file.
